Absolute Beginners
by xX-Misty
Summary: Sequel to Out Of The Window; Simon is recuperating in 2010 but a part of 1985 won't leave him alone. Why is Keats haunting him, how far will he go to catch 'the one that got away' and how can Simon help Alex if he doesn't know she's real? Now complete!
1. Chapter 1: I've nothing much to offer

**Chapter 1**

It all felt so surreal.

That hadn't passed, despite a month coming and going since Simon had opened his eyes for the first time. The air felt slightly unreal, the artificial light giving it the kind of glow that he imagined the ocean would give with a little more nuclear waste to pollute it. The smell of disinfectant stole the humanity from his visitors and turned them into props in the play that was Simon's life.

In the days that followed his exit from the coma he had been able to do very little. It took over a week before the beginning of comprehensible speech returned. In the interim he did a lot of smiling and nodding. He felt a little like a member of the audience at a play, unable to interact with the actors on stage before him but watching them playing up for his benefit.

There were lots of tears and gentle hugs, lots of promises and prayers. When Simon was able to start communicating properly again there was a lot of, _'Yeah?'_s and '_Oh'_s and '_OK'_s. There were a lot of polite smiles and hours spent listening to the events he'd missed out on during the month he'd been out cold.

Physically he grew stronger day by day. After a week he could start to talk again, movement followed, and finally a few gentle steps. He felt more human now. _'On the road to recovery'_ was the phrase everyone used. His doctors, his family, his boyfriend, his colleagues, his neighbours - everyone who passed through the door and greeted him with a smile uttered that phrase. It made Simon feel like a really crap roadtrip.

"…And when you get home well have a belated birthday party for dad," his sister, Elaine, told him excitedly, "I know you missed being there for his actual birthday but it's never too late to celebrate."

Simon nodded and smiled.

"OK," he said.

"We went for the power tools in the end," she continued, "you can chip in when you leave hospital."

Simon frowned.

"Oh?"

Elaine took Simon's hand and squeezed it.

"Don't worry about that now though," she continued, "just you keep on getting stronger. That guinea pig of yours needs you home. Don't get me wrong, Robin's been doing a fab job of looking after him but he's been squeaking all hours of the day and night because he misses you."

Simon raised a smile.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Elaine squeezed his hand and planted a kiss on his cheek. "I'd better get going now, I have to pick up the dry cleaning and get a couple of squid in for tonight."

Simon frowned.

"Oh?"

Elaine smiled and picked up her bag, got to her feet and slowly walked to the door.

"See you Saturday, hun," she waved goodbye to Simon and left the room.

Simon leaned back in his hospital bed and gave a sigh. He was still in the Yeah, Oh and OK phase. It just seemed so difficult to know what else to say. He didn't exactly have a lot of news of his own to impart in return, aside from whether his hospital lunch had included extra carrots that day or not. He felt isolated, shut off from the world. He also knew some of that was of his own making.

One in, one out; Simon's father arrived with some grapes for his son and the carousel began again. News from home, tales of all the things they would do when Simon was allowed home, lots of _Yeahs _and _Ohs _and _Oks_ and some polite smiles and nods.

"…I'm so sorry you weren't there for my birthday, Son," he said, "but we'll make up for it when you get out of here. The girls have got some sort of dinner planned, and maybe a trip to the theatre. Would you like that, Simon?"

Simon nodded again.

"Yeah," he said.

It was funny, he thought, but not one of them had asked him what he had been through. They asked how he felt and whether his head hurt and when he was getting out but none of them had asked him what it was like, being in a coma. And why would they, he supposed, a coma is a coma. Nothingness. Silence. No thoughts. No visions. No dreams.

Except he _had _dreamed. He'd dreamed a long and vivid, terrible and wonderful, violent and emotional dream. He'd lived through days of it. He'd felt pain. He'd tasted food and drink. He'd heard voices and seen faces. It felt as real as the hole in his head.

He still expected to look down and find his toes were broken. He still expected that DCI to burst in and ask him for a comfy pair of size elevens. He expected to wake up in 1985 every day and there was a tiny part of him that felt a yearning for it.

Although he had been scared in the strange world that he'd joined he had also learned so much about himself. He felt like he'd grown more in those few days than he had over the last decade. There were strange people, evil people and prejudiced people, but there were also kind people, warm people and people who showed him that he had more courage than he realised.

"I suppose you're getting tired, Son," Simon shook himself back to the real world as his father got to his feet, "I'd better leave. Robin says he'll be along as soon as he can. Has to clean that hamster out first."

Simon closed his eyes for a moment.

"Guinea pig," he corrected.

His father nodded and gave him a warm smile.

"Take care, Son," he said, "I'll be back tomorrow."

Simon could only nod and smile as he watched his father leave. He _was_ tired, but not in the way his dad assumed. He was mentally exhausted. Physically he was doing so much better - aside from having a slightly oddly-shaped head and a phobia of file servers he was on the mend, but he was struggling to adjust to his surroundings. There was a part of his mind that was still stuck in 1985 and he wasn't sure how to disconnect it.

It was the strangest thing but he caught himself thinking every now and again that it might have been real. He felt angry with himself for doing it because he should have known better - he was a DCI, he owned his own flat, he was responsible enough to look after the general public (not to mention a guinea pig) but he kept on asking himself if he had really travelled through time.

"Hey you," Robin's cheerful smile burst through the door, "How are you feeling today? Still on the road to recovery?"

Simon gave a tired smile.

"Yeah," he said.

Robin gently kissed his forehead and sat down beside him.

"Brought you a goody-bag," he said happily, "look what I've got in here…" he placed a carrier bag on the bed and began to unpack it, "grapes…"

Simon rolled his eyes.

"More grapes?" he asked weakly, glancing at the small mountain of green, spherical fruit that had started to pile up beside his bed.

"…Magazines," Robin continued, placing copies of _DCI Monthly_ and _What Guinea Pig?_ magazine in his lap, "a can of Pepsi, a packet of Jaffa Cakes, some fresh soap, and the _piece de resistance…_" he held aloft a familiar item.

"My _iPhone!"_ Simon cried. He reached out to take it excitedly but as he moved a bitter memory shot into his mind.

"_Messages from home rarely mean anything. If you want messages…" _

A clear image of Keats filled his mind, blasting into his vision like an explosion of trench coat and spectacles. He flinched and gasped a little, replaying the moment where Keats played to him the messages that seemed to prove his life was ebbing away. His fingers fumbled around the phone as though they couldn't quite bear to hold it and it fell onto the bed.

"Oops," Robin said quietly, "don't worry, Si, your co-ordination is still a little out, that's all."

Simon closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to cry, he just wanted to weep and let out some of the pent-up emotion he'd been trying to hide but he couldn't allow himself to cave. He took a deep breath and looked at Robin.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I'm just tired. Lots of visitors today."

Robin gave him a sympathetic smile and gently rubbed his shoulder.

"One step at a time," he said, "just take things slowly. You'll be out of here before you know it. We've got so much to look forward to. There's your dad's belated birthday stuff, we've still got that Boy George thing to watch, and the summer's coming up. How about we take a holiday? Just you and me? Get away from it all."

Simon nodded tiredly.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

"We could go somewhere hot, soak up the sun, forget about all of this," Robin continued.

Simon gave a slight sigh.

"Yeah," he said again.

He let Robin talk for some time about all the wonderful things they would do when he came home, but he'd zoned out almost before he started. He didn't feel like he could think that far ahead. He couldn't even get his head out of 1985, let alone off to the continent somewhere.

"…You look really tired, so I think I'd better go," Robin concluded after a little while.

Simon closed his eyes for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm exhausted today. Not sleeping well."

"Maybe the doctor can give you some sleeping pills," Robin suggested.

Simon briefly remembered the pills he'd been given in 1985 and gave a gentle laugh. Now _those_ were _good._

"Maybe," he said with a smile.

Robin smiled back.

"Now that's what I wanted to see," he grinned. He got to his feet and gave Simon a soft kiss. "I'll leave you in peace, Si. I'll be back tomorrow."

Simon nodded and waved as he watched Robin leave. Alone at last, he gave a sigh of relief. He felt like an act at a freak show, the constant stream of visitors, prodding and poking him and telling him about all the goodies that lay beyond the hospital walls. He tried hard to pretend that he wasn't only interested in working out the treasures that he uncovered inside his own mind while he was 'away'.

He reached for the remote control and switched the television on. It was only Freeview and only half the channels worked but it would distract him for a little while at least. The chirpy, inane mess of Cbeebies greeted him. He glanced around nervously, not wanting to admit that he'd watch the occasional bit of preschool programming when there was nothing else on and settled down to watch _Something Special._

Justin Fletcher was busy indicating some household items and demonstrating their sign in Makaton.

"_Oh look!" _he cried excitedly, "_A table! You sign Table."_

Half heartedly Simon signed 'Table' then felt rather silly, glancing around to check no one had seen him. Luckily he was in the clear.

Ping!

"_Look!" _Justin smiled, "_Chair! You sign Chair!"_

"Oh well, in for a penny in for a pound," sighed Simon, copying the sign.

Ping!

"_Ahh!" _smiled a happy Justin, _"Sofa! You sign Sofa!"_

"If I must," Simon mumbled, signing along.

Ping!

Justin gave a gasp of excitement.

"_Oh look - Jim Keats!" _

Simon almost vomited right there and then.

"You _what?"_

"_YOU sign Jim Keats!"_

Simon's heart thumped and his lunch threatened desperately to escape. He grabbed for the remote and pounded at the buttons to change the channel quickly. He turned to Dave where _Dragon's Den _was showing.

Peter Jones was looking thoughtful.

"I like you," he said, "I like your product. I think you could go far." He paused. "I'm going to make you an offer."

A nervous-looking man started to smile.

"Thank you!" he said.

"I'm going to offer you all of the money…" Peter Jones began, "…for Thirty-five percent of Jim Keats."

"Shit!" cried Simon, punching at the buttons again and QVC came on.

"…_This lovely pair of Jim Keats earrings…" _a chirpy presenter greeted him.

"_Fuck!"_ Simon began to sweat with fear. He attacked the remote one more time and BBC News 24 came on. On the main screen a presenter was waffling nineteen to the dozen about a politician who'd been caught with his trousers down, but Simon's attention was drawn to the bar at the bottom of the screen;

"_BREAKING NEWS: Jim Keats Jim Keats Jim Keats Jim Keats Jim Keats Jim Keats Jim Keats Jim Keats Jim Keats Jim Keats …"_

With one swift movement Simon drew back his arm and threw the remote across the room where it smashed against the wall sending a shower of buttons and batteries to the floor. He grabbed for his iPhone to call someone, _anyone_, but to his horror found someone had downloaded a Jim Keats app.

With a gasp of desperation Simon threw his head into his hands and cried. He sobbed loudly, letting out the fear and the memories that had been plaguing him ever since his eyes had opened a few short weeks before. He might not be in 1985 any more but 1985 was still in _him_, and it didn't seem to be going anywhere. If 1985 wasn't going to leave him then how was he supposed to move on?


	2. Chapter 2: There's Nothing Much to Take

**Chapter 2**

"I bet you've been dreaming about this day," the nurse said with a friendly smile as she helped Simon tie his shoelaces.

Simon wasn't altogether sure. He'd been dreaming about plenty of things - Jim Keats, Ataris, Speak and Spells - but in honesty the thought of going home was one that terrified him.

He wasn't even going 'home', he was staying with Robin for a few weeks until he was back on his feet, so he was in danger of being mollycoddled and looked after too well when all he wanted was a little peace and quiet.

"_Hey you," _a grinning Robin appeared at the door.

Simon smiled back nervously.

"Hey," he repeated.

"Are you ready?"

Simon took a deep breath.

"Just about," he said.

"Well, I've taken the day off work to help you settle in and take care of you," Robin smiled, "so I hope you like pizza, Pepsi and programmes about the 80s."

_Oh God, _thought Simon, _why did he have to keep the 80s stuff on his Sky Plus box_? They're recorded the 80s season to watch together; there was a drama about Boy George, some adaptation from a book and some documentaries. It had been on just a week or two before Simon's accident. Simon wasn't sure he could face the 80s playing at him through the TV screen.

"You didn't have to take the day off, you know," he said quietly.

"I _did,"_ Robin sat beside him and took his hand, "Simon, you've been through so much. Look at all the times you've taken care of me; when I broke my leg, when I had swine flu…"

"_Man_ Flu," Simon corrected cheekily.

"…When I got my arm trapped between the railings outside the fish and chip shop," Robin continued, "believe me, it's the least I can do."

Simon smiled tiredly. Even putting his shoes on was still wearing him out.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Robin smiled back and got to his feet again, hauling Simon's bags over his shoulders.

"That's what I'm here for," he said, "Look, I'm going to go and bring the car round to the exit. Will the nurse be able to help you to the doors?"

The nurse smiled.

"Don't worry, I'll escort him safely," she said.

"You don't have to do that," Simon told her with a smile, "I'll be fine."

"Nonsense," the nurse told him, "it's a choice between walking you out or syringing the ears of Mister Davidson down the hall. I know which one I prefer doing."

Simon laughed gently and allowed the nurse to help him to his feet. He was still a little unsteady, it had taken some therapy to get him walking again but he was improving daily. He gripped the arm of his nurse to hold him steady and slowly left the room. They walked together down the corridor, round the corner and down a flight of stairs until they reached a cold-looking corridor.

"Here's where your bed was while you were unconscious," the nurse told him.

Simon felt a little strange.

"Oh," he said, "…thanks for taking me down memory lane."

He walked slowly down the corridor, not even wishing to think about how close he came to meeting a sticky end. He paused as he got to one particular door. Something made him shudder. A chill went down his spine, almost as though someone had walked across his grave.

"Was… was this my room?" he asked quietly.

"Hmm? Oh no," the nurse shook her head, "yours was actually the room next door. The patient in this room has been in a vegetative state for two years now."

Simon shuddered again. He couldn't begin to imagine what the friends and family of that patient must be going through.

"Can we get going?" he asked quietly.

"Of course," the nurse took his arm again and guided him a little more quickly down the corridor, turned left and finally toward the exit. Outside a bright, sunny day was waiting to greet him. Robin stood in front of the car, smiling broadly, holding the door open like a chauffer. All he needed was the silly hat.

"Your carriage awaits, Sir," he told Simon.

Simon gave a smile and a deep sigh. The whole, wide world was out there and a whole life lay ahead of him. He had fought so damn hard to earn his right to them, too. So why did they both seem so scary?

* * *

Simon started to wish he was back in the hospital. There were only so many cups of tea he could drink, only so many biscuits and cakes he could consume, only so many grapes he could stand to eat and only so many magazines he could read. He just wanted some peace and quiet, time alone with his thoughts. He felt awful for thinking that way because Robin was working so hard to make him comfortable but he was starting to feel nothing short of smothered.

By the time the evening came around Simon had regressed back to the _Yeah, Oh _and _OK_ stage and was fading fast with exhaustion.

"I hope you're ready for an eighties marathon!" Robin said excitedly.

Simon closed his eyes briefly. He gave a sigh.

"Robin, I'm so sorry but I'm really tired," he began, "do you mind if we watch the shows another day? I think I need to get some sleep."

Robin looked at him sadly. It seemed whatever he tried to do Simon rejected. He knelt beside him on the couch and rubbed his arm.

"Hey, don't worry about it," he said, "plenty of time. It's your first day back. You get to bed." He kissed Simon's forehead and gently stroked his cheek. "I'll be along later. Got some paperwork to catch up on."

"Thank you," Simon said quietly. He felt guilty for turning down the evening's entertainment but the thought of some blessed peace and quiet came as a relief to Simon. All he wanted was a little silence, a familiar bed and a peaceful, dreamless night's sleep.

Two out of three wasn't bad.

* * *

A darkness. A desperate darkness. A feeling of suffocation, maybe choking.

There's not enough air. There's never, _ever_ enough air.

Breathing is hard, getting harder by the moment. It's so difficult to keep on moving, keep on living.

Time to give in. Time to go under. Time to give up.

That's when Simon realised it wasn't him who couldn't breathe.

"_Simon," _he heard a familiar voice cry out his name, _"Simon, help! Help me!"_

He tried to look around but it was so dark, so very black in every inch of the room that he couldn't see a thing. He tried to run, to search for the voice calling him so desperately but it was so hard to move.

"_Simon, PLEASE!"_ the cries turned to sobs, "_Help me! You're the only one who can -"_

The voice was drowned out by the sound of a heartbeat, increasing in volume with every beat. Just as it reached deafening proportions it stopped and a long, loud beep replaced it.

Simon woke with a jolt, sitting up bolt-upright in bed. He was sweating and his hands were shaking. He couldn't stop himself from panting and cried out with fear.

"_Simon!" _Robin's alarmed voice cried his name, "what's wrong? What's the matter?"

Simon turned to him quickly, his eyes as wide as saucers. He tried to explain to him why he was so scared, he wanted to open up to him and tell him what was going on but he couldn't find the words. He didn't even know how to begin.

Eventually he brushed the sweat from his brow and looked downward.

"Bad dream," he whispered, "I had a nightmare. That's all."

Robin wrapped his arms around Simon's shoulders, doing his very best to give comfort and support but found they failed on both counts. Simon remained rigid and shaken.

"_I'm here," _he whispered, _"I'll always be here."_

Simon was grateful for the arms around his shoulders but he couldn't tell Robin that they offered little comfort because they couldn't reach inside his head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I didn't mean to wake you. Try to go back to sleep."

"I'd rather stay awake with you," Robin told him.

Simon laid back down. He closed his eyes.

"I'm going back to sleep," he lied, "I hope you can too."

Robin hesitated.

"If you're sure," he said quietly.

Simon nodded slowly.

"'Night, Robin."

Robin exhaled and looked sadly at Simon. There was a wall around him that he just couldn't seem to break down and he didn't know where to begin.

* * *

The following week fell into a pattern. It was a pattern of lies and politeness and skirting around the issues. Every day Robin would make Simon breakfast, kiss him goodbye and go to work and every day Simon would potter about the flat, scared to watch the TV in case a Jim Keats special came on and scared to check his messages in case he had one from someone that only existed inside his head. He would go over and over his time in 1985, trying to work out whether any of it could have been real or if he truly was crazy. Then Robin would arrive home, Simon would pretend he'd had a nice day, they'd have dinner and Simon would come up with a new way to avoid watching all the things Robin had kept on his Sky + box. Soon it would be bedtime and another round of nightmares would come and go.

One week to the day of his discharge from hospital Simon's routine was broken by a check-up at the hospital. Robin had dropped him off and then gone to pick up some shopping before picking him up again. The check-up had gone as well as Simon could have expected. There was prodding and poking and a lot of questions. Far too many questions for Simon's liking.

By the time the doctor had finished with him he felt thoroughly drained and sloped off to the hospital canteen for a quick cup of coffee before Robin collected him. He had bought his drink and was busy _umm_ing and _ahh_ing over whether to get a jam donut or a happy smiley biscuit when he spotted a young girl sitting miserably at a table on her own. She was wearing a school uniform and couldn't have been any older than in her early teens. She looked thoroughly depressed and Simon's heart went out to her.

Instantly Simon made up his mind.

"Two of those happy, smiley biscuits please," he said.

The woman behind the counter placed two on a plate and charged Simon an extortionate amount for them. Simon almost reported how many hundreds of biscuits he could have got for that amount in nineteen eighty five but thought better of it and paid the money without complaint. He carried the plate and his drink over to the table where the teenager was sitting and placed them down.

"Now, I know it's not good practice to accept gifts from strange men," he began, "but in my defence I have a hole in my head, can only walk short distances and blackout twice a day so you're probably as safe with me as with anyone."

The girl looked up at him and didn't seem impressed by his attempt at humour. Simon sighed and sat down opposite her. There was something about the girl that seemed familiar. He couldn't put his finger on it but he felt sure he recognised her from somewhere.

"Please, tell me just to go away and I will," he began, "but you look so down… and all on your own… I just wondered if there was anything I could do? Anything you needed?" He watched her shake her head. "Anyone I can call for you?"

The girl shook her head again.

"I'm waiting for my godfather to pick me up," she said, "I was visiting my mum."

"She's in hospital?" Simon asked unnecessarily.

The girl nodded.

"She's in a coma," she said, "she's been like this for two years."

Simon's heart fell. He hated to think what the poor girl was going through.

"Two _years?"_ he repeated, "I'm… I'm so sorry."

The girl looked down.

"They say she's starting to show some signs of response," she began, "but they've been saying that for weeks. They said this was her best chance of waking up but she's still asleep." she paused. "Today's my birthday. I really wanted her to wake up. I thought if she was going to open her eyes it would be today, but she's still laying there, dead to the world."

"Oh God," Simon breathed, "I really am so sorry. Shit." he cringed. "I mean, _sugar."_

The young girl actually managed to raise a smile.

"I'm fourteen, not four," she said, "I've heard worse."

Simon smiled a little. He too a deep breath.

"I missed my dad's birthday too," he said quietly. The girl looked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I was in a coma," Simon said awkwardly, "like your mum, but not for so long."

"What happened?" asked the girl, "did you get shot too?"

"Shot?" Simon repeated, "Oh no, I, erm…" his accident seemed incredibly stupid in comparison, "well, I had an accident and my skull was crushed. There was pressure on my brain. That's why they had to take a bit away." he pointed to his still-bound head, "of bone, I mean. Not of my brain."

"Gosh," the girl peered at his bandages with interest, "you poor thing."

Simon passed the plate to the girl and watched her take one of the smiley biscuits. He took the plate back, lifted the second one and bit into it. After chewing thoughtfully for a moment he said,

"If I could have woken up for my dad's birthday, I would. If it was up to me, I'd have opened my eyes and sung a rousing chorus of _Happy Birthday To You_. I didn't make it in time, but I did keep fighting until I got back. Your mum will too."

The girl looked a little awkward.

"How do you know?" she asked.

Simon let out his breath noisily. He wasn't sure how he knew, he just did.

"Maybe… maybe because I've been there," he said quietly, "your mum has _you _to fight for. She'll want to get back so she can say she's sorry she missed your birthday and she'll make it up to you next year." He paused and looked at her seriously. "Don't give up on her. My family… they almost gave up on me. But I kept fighting, and I know she is too."

The girl stared at him for the longest time, then finally she gave him a little smile.

"Maybe," she said quietly.

Simon nodded.

"Really," he said, "she'll fight on as long as you keep fighting for her."

The girl gave a genuine smile. Somehow this stranger had come along and given her spirit the lift she needed that day.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"Molly?" a voice caused her to turn round, "are you ready?"

Molly glanced behind her, then turned back to Simon.

"This is my godfather,v," she said, "this is…" she looked at Simon and faltered, realising he'd never introduced himself properly.

"Simon," Simon got to his feet and held out his hand to shake Ethan's.

Evan hesitated, then took it in his own.

"Pleasure to meet you."

"Simon was in a coma, just like mummy," the girl said, "he woke up and he's fine, and he has a hole in his head and everything!"

Simon felt his bandage a little self-consciously.

"I'm recovering," he explained, "it's taking a while but I'm getting there."

Evan gave a nod.

"Well, good luck," he said, "I hope you continue to recuperate."

Molly gave a smile as she got to her feet.

"Bye, Simon," she said, picking up her smiley biscuit, "get better soon."

Simon smiled and raised his Styrofoam cup.

"The same to your mum," he said.

He watched as the girl left the canteen and sipped his drink. There was something so familiar about Molly. She reminded him so much of someone he used to know.

"Si!" a cheerful Robin interrupted his thoughts, "how did it go?"

Simon glanced up as Robin crossed the room and sat in Molly's chair.

"Fine," he said, "clean bill of health, still got my marbles, bought a young girl a smiley biscuit, pretty average appointment really."

"Great," Robin smiled, "hopefully you can relax a little now."

"Yeah, until the next appointment," Simon mumbled into his coffee.

Robin got back out of the chair.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked.

"I only just bought my coffee and a smiley biscuit!" Simon protested.

"Bring them with you!" said Robin.

Simon rolled his eyes and got to his feet.

"Fine," he said, "I'll bring them with me."

"Let's go then," said Robin, leaning forward to kiss him but to his surprise Simon pulled away.

"What are you doing?" he cried, glancing around.

Robin looked at him with hurt in his eyes.

"I was just going to kiss you," he said.

"_Here?"_

Robin gave a nervous laugh.

"It's… it's never bothered you before," he said quietly.

Simon flinched. The memory of a thousand eighties attitudes came flooding back to him. So securely was his mind still locked in that time period that he couldn't face the rampant homophobia that he felt so sure was around them. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. He was still in 2010. He was still living in a world where he could marry his boyfriend should he choose to and where could walk down the street hand in hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm so sorry, I just hate hospitals. I just want to get home."

Robin chewed on his lip. He wasn't used to Simon behaving that way but decided to let it go, in the interests of keeping the peace.

"Then lets get you home," he whispered.

Simon nodded slowly and followed Robin out of the canteen. He hated the way he was acting but something just wasn't right. Until he could figure things out he just had to hope Robin's patience would last a little longer.


	3. Chapter 3: And I'm Absolutely Sane

**Chapter 3**

There was darkness again. The darkness was there every night with the feeling of suffocation, the voice crying out for help. Night after night he woke in a cold sweat, desperately trying to work out what it meant and how he was supposed to make it go away. Tonight was different. Tonight the voice was weaker, like it was giving up hope.

There was a light, a very dim, green glow in the distance. Simon couldn't tell what it was and waded through the thick air towards it. Faster and faster he began to move until he was right upon it.

"_Spell 'HELP',"_ it said electronically.

Simon collapsed to the floor with his head in his hands.

"_Nooooooooo!"_ he screamed.

"_Incorrect!" _the voice told him, "_Now spell 'Jim Keats'."_

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" _Simon screamed again, this time jolting himself awake and sitting bolt upright in bed like he was on a spring. His breathing was fast and frantic, his heart beating at what felt like a thousand times a minute.

"Simon!" Robin gasped, shocked out of sleep by the scream, "Simon, what's wrong?"

Simon turned to Robin, his eyes open as wide as the moon.

"It was a Speak and Spell!" he cried.

"What?"

"A speak and spell!" he cried again. He took hold of Robin by the shoulders and began to shake him, "it was a bloody Speak and Spell, don't you see?"

"No,." cried Robin, "I don't 'see'. There's nothing there _to_ see! It was a nightmare Simon, another nightmare." He watched as Simon slowly calmed down, just a little, and sighed deeply. "Si, I can't take this any more. It's been two weeks now. You're getting worse, not better. You have nightmares every night, you won't talk to me, you won't touch me, you… freak out every time I try to put anything on sky plus." he shook his head slowly. "You need to get some help."

Simon flinched.

"Apparently I can't even _spell_ help," he whispered.

Robin put his hand on Simon's shoulder.

"You have to get help," he insisted, "take up the hospital's offer of some therapy. Talk to someone about what you've been through."

"I'm not crazy," Simon said quickly.

"No, you're not," Robin agreed, "you're upset and you're exhausted and you've been through something I can't even begin to comprehend. I can make you tea and biscuits and I can cook a mean stir fry at night, I can even mop your brow when you wake up screaming about a Game and Watch…"

"It was a Speak and Spell," Simon said quietly.

"…but I can't help you if you won't talk to me." Robin paused and looked Simon right in the eye. "Please, Simon. Make that call. Get some help. If you won't do it for me, do it for yourself."

Simon hesitated. He hated being backed into a corner and wanted to scream at Robin, tell him he didn't know what he was talking about and the only problem he had was being smothered and force-fed too many grapes, but the look on Robin's face stopped him.

"Robin, I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I'm doing my best. It's just hard."

"So make it easier," Robin urged him, "talk to someone. _Please_, talk to someone."

Simon couldn't fight the tears. He closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

"OK, he whispered.

"OK?" repeated Robin.

Simon nodded

"I'll call tomorrow."

Robin closed his own eyes and breathed an immense sigh of relief.

"Oh Simon," he breathed, "you have no idea what a relief it is to hear you say that. I am so proud of you."

Simon shook his head slowly and couldn't even respond as Robin hugged him. He didn't want help. He didn't want anything except to go to sleep and wake up on the morning of his accident, take a sicky and never get a file server square in the head. Since he didn't have a time machine or a genie in a magic lamp this was the only suitable alternative he had.

* * *

"Just relax, Simon."

_Easier said than done, _Simon thought to himself. The hospital had been keen to give him an initial consultation to see how he was doing before a regular session was established and he barely had time to get himself used to the idea of seeing a psychologist before he found himself sitting in front of one.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say," he admitted.

"Just start with why you're here," the psychologist told him, "and work up from that." she adjusted her clipboard and started making notes. "Why did you make this appointment?"

Simon sighed.

"My boyfriend thinks I need help," he began, "I… I had an accident. I was in a coma for a month. I'm having some trouble readjusting."

"Feelings of… isolation are not unusual following a period of prolonged illness or time in hospital," the woman told him.

"It's not… isolation," Simon shook his head, "it's… I don't know _what_ it is." he sighed. "I've been having nightmares. Just snippets of feeling suffocated and someone calling for help…" he paused, "and ancient technology."

"Nightmares can often be a manifestation of our innermost fears," the psychologist began, "in your case it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume you are being haunted from your near-death experience."

Simon glanced down.

"I had nightmares while I was dying, too," he said quietly.

"Can you tell me about them?"

Simon shrugged.

"There's not much to tell," he lied.

"If you're worried about repeating your near-death experience to me you need not be," she said, "I've heard it many times before. Did you have the tunnel of light? Did you meet your loved ones? St Peter?"

Simon gave a bitter laugh.

"You have no idea," he said.

"Then the only way I can help is if you talk to me," the psychologist said patiently.

Simon shook his head slowly. He didn't know what to do. His time in 1985 was an extremely personal experience and he hadn't even opened up to Robin, but the burden of the secret was getting so heavy. Eventually he began to talk, not meeting her eye for a moment.

"I went to… a place," he began, "well, a _time._ I was… in my own office but it all looked different. All the people there were different too. People were _smoking… indoors!"_ he scratched his head. "Everything was different. Attitudes were prehistoric, technology was in the dark ages, it was some kind of nightmare alright." He paused, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to someone out loud, "but then there were kind people, good people who looked after me. I made friends. They gave me hope. I knew I was still alive, I just had to fight to get home."

"And now you are… '_home_'…" the psychologist pissed Simon off instantly by using air quotes, "how does it make you feel to remember your dreams?"

Simon didn't really know what to say.

"It doesn't make me feel much like anything," he said, "I had dreams, then I woke up."

"But they're affecting your daily life?"

"I never said that."

" You spoke about having trouble adjusting," the psychologist reminded him, "is it because you have spent a long time away from the outside world in hospital or because you feel the '_world_'…" the air quotes came out again "…that you were in during your coma is somehow real?" She didn't even allow Simon to begin his reply before she continued, "because it wasn't real in any way. Your mind projected images and scenarios just the same as when you are dreaming at night. Just think of it as a long dream you woke up from and remembered in detail."

Simon took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. He was losing his patience with this woman. Her attitude was exactly the reason he hadn't spoken to anyone about his time working under Gene Hunt. He wasn't interested in scientific explanations. He'd been deeply affected emotionally by the experience and classifying it as 'a dream' only served to frustrate him and make him feel as though his feelings were invalid.

"It doesn't help to think of it as a dream because dreams are the _problem!"_ he cried, "It's the nightmares that are causing a problem between me and Robin. Just tell me how to get rid of them and everything will be fine and dandy!"

The psychologist scribbled something down on her pad and then looked at him seriously.

"Mr. Shoebury, in order to find out what is causing you to suffer from nightmares we need to examine your past, your personality and then the traumatic events that triggered them. This includes the time you spent in hospital and unconscious. Now, I am certain I can help you but I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Simon stared at the woman for some time. His stare bordered on a glare. Eventually he decided to lie through his teeth. He could filter his responses, he decided, and it would get Robin off his back.

"Yes," he said with only slightly disguised venom, "I can."

"In that case I will refer you for a course of therapy, suggest weekly appointments for the first month and fortnightly after that."

Simon scowled.

"Great," he muttered.

"You should receive your first appointment in the post within the next few days," the told him, "I hope you will find our sessions useful."

Simon got to his feet.

"I'm sure I will," he lied half-heartedly. Barely uttering a goodbye he left the room and closed the door behind him. He had no intention of attending a follow-up and knew that the appointment would go to waste but Robin would be happy and he would buy himself some time. He knew there was a reason for his nightmares but it was something he would have to work out for himself. He just hoped he could find the answer before it drove him crazy.

-x-

The psychologist sighed and tutted as she finished filling out her patient evaluation form.

"_Deeply traumatised, signs of denial and possibly delusional," _she wrote, _"time-travel scenario, resistant to suggestions for progress."_

She signed the bottom of the sheet and slipped it into an envelope which she sealed and addressed with a prepared sticker.

"_For the attention of DCI J. Keats," _it said.

She sent it away in the outgoing post and never gave it a second thought.


	4. Chapter 4: As Long as We're Together

**Chapter 4**

"I'm really proud of you," Robin beamed, serving up a home-made pizza, "I know you didn't want to go but you knew it was the right thing to do. I hope you get your appointment through soon and then you can start to _really_ get back to normal."

Simon sighed. He couldn't tell Robin he had no intention of attending any kind of follow-up or that the whole thing had been a waste of time in his eyes. It took a little of the pressure off while he searched for his own answers though.

"This looks lovely," he said, changing the subject.

"Thanks," Robin said proudly. Simon often thought Robin missed his vocation in life and should have been a chef instead of a police dog handler. The two jobs weren't really compatible, he thought idly. He imagined training up a sniffer dog to pick out the best tomatoes in Sainsbury's.

"What are the trays for?" Simon asked.

"We're having a lazy TV dinner," said Robin.

"Oh?" said Simon.

"I thought we could finally watch that Boy George drama!" Robin said happily.

Simon cursed silently. He'd spent a couple of weeks doing his best to avoid it but he'd finally run out of excuses. He thought about using the 'I'm too tired' one again, but the pizza did look really tasty… Maybe he could concentrate on the food and block out the 80s aspect of the evening, he decided.

"Great," he said quietly.

Simon had been right about the pizza. It really was excellent. Somehow the local Pizza Hut could never measure up to a home-made special from the oven of Robin. Now, though, all that was left was one sliver of crust and there was still half the programme to watch.

Simon hated that his coma experience had tainted his love of 80s music. It was one of the things that brought him and Robin together in the first place. Now he felt like he was watching it through closed fingers, like a kid who wasn't cried ready to watch their first horror movie.

He was just about doing OK until he started to hallucinate Keats in heavy make-up, warbling _Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?_ and then he started to feel a little too disturbed. Luckily he found a distraction in challenging himself to think of 101 unusual deaths he could inflict upon that stupid psychologist woman.

He'd only gotten up to number 57 when the programme finished. There was a part of him that was a little disappointed, actually. He hadn't even gotten onto the subject that involved sharp, pointy objects shoved into uncomfortable places. He congratulated himself on making it all the way through the drama intact, and it had scored him some brownie points with Robin, too.

"That was brilliant," Robin said as he finally deleted the programme.

Simon gave a polite smile.

"Great," he said.

"Well worth waiting for," said Robin.

Simon nodded.

"Yes, well worth waiting for."

Robin bit his lip nervously.

"Uh… speaking of things that are well worth waiting for," he began nervously, "how… how are you feeling now?"

Simon looked at him cautiously.

"Why?"

"It's just," Robin hated himself for bringing it up, "I don't want to rush you, and I know how much you've been through, but it's been weeks since you woke up and a long time has passed since you left hospital, and we still haven't…"

Simon glanced down. He hadn't even thought about bedroom shenanigans. The last kind of action he'd had was when a concussed Keats tried feeling his bicep.

"Robin," he sighed, "it's not that you're hurrying me, and it's not that I don't want to. It's just…" he paused. Was _'Not tonight dear, I have a headache' _too trite? "…By the time it gets to the evening I am so tired I just can't think about anything other than crawling into bed."

Robin sighed deeply.

"I thought that's what you'd say," he whispered.

Simon felt terribly guilty. He knew something was still amiss in his head and he needed to sort that out before he could think about very much else.

"But soon," he said, just hoping he was telling the truth, "I mean it. I'm getting better, every day I'm a little bit stronger."

Robin gave him a thin smile. He wished he could believe that.

"I'll clear the plates away," he said quietly.

Simon watched in silence as Robin got to his feet and made a big show of distracting himself with the washing up. He longed to get back to normal but had no idea what normal was any more. He just hoped he could find the answer soon.

-x-

Another night, another nightmare.

Simon had almost expected it as he closed his eyes and drifted off, but this time things panned out differently. There was still darkness, there was still a lack of oxygen, but this time the voice was clearer.

"_Help,_" it cried, "_Simon, I need you."_

Simon fought against the darkness and the dense air. He ran and ran, step by step getting closer to the voice.

"I'm coming," he cried, "I'm trying to help you but I don't know who you are!"

"_It's ME, Simon," _the voice said insistently, "_You're the only one who can save me. Please, hear me… see me…"_

Simon looked desperately around him, looking for a face or a clue but there was nothing except darkness until he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around.

A harrowed, anxious and desperate face greeted him. A familiar face. One he never thought that he would see again.

"_Alex?"_ he breathed.

"I need you, Simon," she cried, tears in her eyes.

"H-how can I help you?" Simon trembled, "You're in nineteen eighty-five! You're decades away!"

"I'm closer than you realise," Alex whispered, "Please… find me…"

A last silent plea from her eyes caused Simon to choke up a little.

"Alex, please, tell me how and I'll do it," he begged, but her image was fading. "Alex? _Alex!"_

With the last scream of her name he awoke in a sweat, sat up and panted for several moments. He put his hand to his head and cried,

"Oh _God,"_ then cursed himself for being so loud. Now Robin would wake up and he would have more questions to answer. He braced himself but the usual worried reaction didn't come. After a few moments he glanced around and found the bed empty beside him. He frowned. "Robin?"

He waited for a moment but he couldn't hear footsteps, nor the flushing of the toilet. There was no sound to be heard. He slowly lifted his legs out of bed and shuffled into the hall.

"Robin?"

There were no lights on in the flat but he heard a noise coming from the kitchen and made his way there. He flicked on the light and found Robin sitting at the table, nursing a glass of whiskey. Robin very rarely drank, he'd just never been into it, so the sight shocked Simon.

"Robin? What's the matter?"

Robin raised his glass to his lips and took a sip.

"Nothing," he whispered, "I couldn't sleep. That's all."

Simon squinted a little, the light stinging his eyes.

"You're drinking," he said.

Robin shrugged.

"I'm over eighteen," he said childishly.

Simon hesitated. He didn't know what more to say.

"Well… I'll see you in bed in a bit?" he asked.

Robin nodded.

"Yeah," he said.

Simon hesitated for a moment. He wasn't used to seeing Robin like this. Usually Robin was the happy, optimistic one. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. Finally he turned around slowly and began to leave the room. He'd taken two steps into the hallway when he heard Robin ask;

"Who is he?"

Simon paused and frowned. He thought he must have misheared the question and came back to the doorway.

"What?"

"Who is he?" Robin asked again.

Simon frowned.

"Who?" he asked.

Robin took a swig of whiskey and pulled a face as the liquid stung his throat. It took a few seconds for him to regain the power of speech. He looked Simon right in the eye.

"Alex," he said.

Simon turned cold. Ice ran through his veins at the mention of the name. Something felt terribly wrong.

"_What?" _he breathed.

"It all adds up," said Robin, "the way you've been behaving. Not wanting to touch me, not wanting to be seen with me, not wanting to kiss me…" he stared into his glass. "How long?"

"How long what?"

"Have you been _seeing_ him?"

Simon shook his head slowly.

"Robin," he whispered, crossing to the table, "I honestly don't know what you're talking about?"

"I heard you crying his name," Robin said in slow, measured tones, "in your sleep. Groaning." He looked at Simon again. "Is he someone from work? Have you been seeing him since before the accident?"

Simon's heart sank.

"Robin, _no,"_ he cried, "you've got the wrong end of the stick."

"Which is more than Alex did, by the sound of it," Robin muttered.

Simon shook his head.

"Alex," he began, "is a _woman."_

Robin frowned.

"So, what are you… coming out… in reverse?"

Simon gave a very deep sigh. This was the moment he'd been dreading. The moment he'd been putting off forever and a day. Now the truth would have to come out.

"Robin," he said quietly, slipping into a chair beside him, "I need you to listen to me very carefully, because what I'm about to tell you… It's hard for me to admit to. But I am _not_ having an affair and I haven't gone straight either. OK?"

Robin glanced at him dubiously.

"I'm listening," he prompted.

Simon rubbed his temples. He'd tried so hard to avoid even thinking about 1985 that he didn't know how to even begin to put it into words.

"When I had the accident," he began quietly, "I didn't just… stop existing. It wasn't like something hit me on the head and then I opened my eyes again in hospital. When the server hit me I woke up somewhere else. Or… some_when_ else. I was at the station but it looked different. I didn't know what was going on, I was terrified."

"It was a bad dream?" asked Robin.

Simon sighed.

"Pass," he said, "can I come back to that?" he ran his hand through his hair. "There were three guys in suits who kept telling me I'd been hit in the head by a mug. I thought they were treating _me_ like a mug so I went to find my office, see what was going on, but that was all different as well."

Robin felt the room swim a little. He wasn't used to the spirits and they were beginning to affect him but Simon's words were starting to gather his interest.

"What happened?" he asked.

Simon exhaled loudly and with some annoyance.

"There was this guy," he began, "DCI Hunt. He appeared when I was trying to find out who'd nicked my iPhone. Treated me like a total ruddy idiot. I was all fired up, as angry as anything, I kicked a desk and wound up in hospital with three broken toes." Involuntarily he wiggled the toes on his foot just to check they were intact. "Turns out I was back in nineteen eighty five." He looked cautiously at Robin, expecting him to roll his eyes or call him out as a liar but whether it was the alcohol he'd consumed or the honest look in Simon's eye he did neither.

"You went back in time?" he asked, "you were dreaming about the past?"

"It didn't feel like a dream," Simon told him, "Rob, please, suspend your disbelief for a moment. Put yourself in my place. I knew I'd had an accident, a bad one at that. I knew I was in a coma. I was getting messages from home about my progress. The accident either sent me back through time or to some kind of weird dimension, or to a world my mind created to keep itself alive while I recovered enough to wake up."

Robin began to understand just a little about Simon's erratic behaviour. He reached across the table to touch his hand.

"So you'd woken up in this place, broken your toes, gone to hospital…" he paused, "what happened next?"

Simon shuddered.

"I'd been demoted to DI," he said, "My boss was a racist, sexist, homophobic caveman who wanted to send me packing to work at the nearest shoe shop because of my name. I wanted to scream." he paused. "But there was this woman, Alex. DI Drake. She looked out for me. She looked _after_ me. She was a good friend. She tried to teach me that Hunt wasn't as bad as he seemed on the outside and that it was just how he got his job done. Things were different back then." he started to breath more deeply as the darker side of his experience came closer. "That was part of the problem, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"There was this other guy," Simon continued, "DCI Jim Keats. He was some kind of nutter as far as I could see, but he kept telling me he could get me home if I brought down Hunt."

"Is that how you woke up?"

Simon shook his head.

"He was a liar," he said, "he had me fooled at first, believe me. He showed me some footage of Hunt committing a homophobic hate crime. He told me if I didn't help him bring Hunt down then he'd let it slip that his new DI was gay. I was petrified. I had no way out, no escape route, there was no exit from this place. So I did something awful and I set him up. Alex… she went crazy. She's in love with the guy, honestly, couldn't see what she saw in him. I realised too late that Keats was full of shit."

"But you got home eventually," Robin pointed out.

"No thanks to that evil nutter," said Simon, "I went to try to put things right and he caught me. He played me messages you'd left on my iPhone, and my sister too. I know dad came close to switching off my life support."

Robin felt tears come to the corners of his eyes.

"How did you know about that?" he whispered.

"The message you left on my phone," Simon whispered.

"B-but I deleted it before I gave you the phone back," Robin cried.

Simon shrugged.

"I told you," he whispered, "This was not a dream."

Robin bit his lip, feeling upset and anxious.

"What happened then?" he asked, "I mean, you woke up, you must have… _'escaped' _somehow."

"I was shot," Simon said quietly, "I'm not even sure how it happened. There was screaming… I remember snatches of Alex and Keats fighting over me, then Alex lifted my head and I started to feel a rush of energy. I felt like I was lifting… up… high in the sky. Everything went black for a moment, I had no idea what was happening, until I opened my eyes and you were there beside me."

"In hospital," Robin concluded in a whisper.

Simon nodded.

"I made it back," he whispered. He shook his head slightly. "But I can't shake that world. I keep feeling like I'm still in nineteen eighty five. I'm terrified of homophobia and I can't stand to hear the music I used to love because it brings it all back. I keep seeing Jim Keats everywhere I look, haunting me, taunting me. And I've been having nightmares…"

"What actually happens in them?" Robin asked, "you never tell me."

"There's a voice asking me for help," Simon said quietly, "and darkness. I can't breathe. Sometimes there's some kind of ancient technology, mocking me about being back in the technical dark ages. But tonight was the first time I found out who the voice belonged to, and it was Alex. That's why you heard me say her name. I was calling after her, trying to get her to tell me what was wrong and how I could help. Simon hung his head. "Now I'm worried she's really out there somewhere and relying on me to save her but I don't know what to do."

Robin shook his head slowly.

"You never told me about any of this when you woke up," he said quietly.

Simon sighed.

"I didn't know how," he whispered, "that stupid psychologist woman already thinks I'm mad. I wanted to hit her when she said it was all a dream. I didn't tell you because… well, if a stranger I've never met before thinks I'm mad then that's one thing but if the man I love does then there's not much point me carrying on."

Robin stared at Simon whose eyes were down-turned with sadness and worry. He took his hands in his own and took a deep breath.

"I remember the night we met," he said quietly, "the eighties night at the club downtown. You were dressed as Adam Ant, I was Boy George. It wasn't love at first sight… we could hardly see through all that make-up anyway… but I knew I'd made a friend for life. When Absolute Beginners started playing and we both cried, _'That's my favourite song!'_ I knew right then that one day we were going to be more than that, too. That's why, all those years later when we met again at work and I asked you round for dinner it was the first song I played." He leaned forward and forced Simon to look him in the eye. "I absolutely love you," he echoed the lyrics of the song, "and I believe you."

Simon hesitated. He hoped the alcohol hadn't affected Robin too much and that he'd have to go through the story again come the morning.

"I don't want to go to that stupid psychologist," he said.

"You don't have to," said Robin, "as long as you talk to me instead."

Simon nodded.

"I will."

"And I promise," Robin told him, "that I will do everything I can to help you find out what's causing these nightmares."

Simon gave a slight smile. The weight that lifted from his shoulders by talking to Robin was incredible and he cursed himself for not gathering the courage to do so sooner.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Robin slowly got to his feet. He felt slightly woozy but not enough to notice.

"Come on," he said quietly, "let's go back to bed. Together. And this time, if you have any bad dreams, remember I'm by your side."

Simon stood up and accepted the invitation. He hoped that by talking to Robin he'd broken the spell that 1985 had been holding over him. Maybe, just maybe, this time he could have a peaceful dream and tomorrow wake up firmly rooted in 2010.


	5. Chapter 5: The Rest can go to Hell

**Chapter 5**

The spell might not have been broken but it started to lose its power the second Simon opened up to Robin. That night was the turning point. No longer did he have the burden of a secret weighing him down. The following morning when they sat down for breakfast and a vision came back to haunt him all Simon needed to do was cry; _"There's a Keats in my cereal!" _and Robin came to the rescue with a bottle of milk to drown the bastard.

Simon began to walk down the street without fear again. The panic attacks that had been creeping into his life ceased. He grew closer to Robin than ever and even started listening to his 80s music again.

Almost exactly two weeks to the day of his confession to Robin he plugged his iPhone in to recharge overnight and laid his suit out for the morning.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Robin asked him.

"I'm starting to go crazy being at home all the time," Simon told him, "I need to get back out there."

"Going back to work," Robin sighed, "it's a big step."

"It's only two half-days this week," said Simon, "to see how I go. Then I've got the psych evaluation to see if I can stay on or whether I need to _spend more time with my friends and family." _he pulled a face.

"You sound like a politician," said Robin, "besides, you'll be fine. You're doing so much better. You haven't even had any nightmares lately."

Simon nodded. That was true enough. He actually felt more concerned about not having them than he felt when they were coming to him night after night. There was a part of him that worried he had failed to help Alex and she couldn't ask him for help any more. He tried to push that out of his mind.

"I'm telling you, if they send me to that batty woman again…"

"They won't," Robin chuckled, "they'll give you a police psychologist, won't they?"

"You'd think so," said Simon, "but remember, this is me. I'm the guy that got a server in the head. I'm just lucky enough to get that woman again."

Robin shook his head, smiling.

"Get to bed, you," he said, "and get some sleep. Otherwise you'll be arriving in your pyjamas in the morning, an hour late!"

Simon smiled and climbed in beside him. The next day was a terrifying prospect but he knew he had to face it sooner or later. At least this time when he got to his office he would find it more or less as he'd left and not as it was two and a half decades previously.

* * *

Simon's footsteps echoed as he walked down the corridor. He felt a chill run down his spine. This, he decided, felt very strange indeed. The place seemed very quiet, too quiet even. Where was everyone?

He turned the handle of the door and stepped into his office. Twenty people lined the sides of the room, beaming from ear to ear and spontaneously bursting into applause at his entrance. Simon felt a little daunted as he scanned the faces. Seeing his colleagues so happy to see him, giving him a standing ovation was a bizarre feeling.

"What's going on?" he asked nervously.

His DI stepped forward and shook his hand.

"Sir," she smiled, "we didn't think we would ever see you in these walls again. Welcome back."

"_Sally," _Simon smiled, "oh my goodness, it's so good to _see_ you!"

"We got you some things," she said, stepping back to let someone else step forward.

"Flowers," said a smiley WPC.

"A crash helmet," a man in a pale grey suit teased.

"And a feathery nest for your iPhone," someone else popped up.

"Where _is_ your iPhone?" Sally asked, "I was expecting you to arrive with it superglued to you like usual!"

Simon opened his mouth to reply but an image caught him unawares in his mind of Keats playing back his messages. He flinched for a second. This wasn't a place he wanted to go.

"It's, um," he stumbled a little, "I left it charging at home."

"Simon? Are you OK?" Sally asked, "you look a bit… dizzy."

"I just feel a bit tired," Simon said. He knew it was a feeble excuse, but just wanted to change the subject and it seemed a quick enough reason. "So… what's been going on in my absence?"

"DCI Huston took charge of the unit," Sally explained, "he's in court today with the new Super."

"Who?" frowned Simon.

"Didn't you hear about Superintendent Marshall?" asked Sally.

"N-no," Simon felt sure bad news was about to come and wasn't certain he was ready to hear it.

"I'm… I'm so sorry to have to break the news to you like this," Sally said sadly, "he had an accident about three months ago and lost his life."

Simon slapped his hand over his mouth in shock.

"Oh my God," he whispered, "what happened?"

"Golfing range, wild animal, golf clubs_… everywhere_…" Sally shook her head, "a tragic, tragic accident."

"And one so easily preventable with more bear traps on the golf course," someone else added.

Simon frowned and thought for a second.

"What were wild animals doing on a golf course anyway?" he asked.

"You know what it's like," Sally began, "night on the town, couple of drinks, let's break into a zoo and let a couple of animals out…"

Simon went cold.

"I don't think I want to hear about this," he sighed. He couldn't help shaking his head a little. "I just can't believe it. I didn't even hear…"

"I'm so sorry no one thought to tell you," Sally said quietly.

Simon gave a sad sigh. He couldn't believe his first day back had taken such a morbid turn. He glanced around and saw his desk. Something familiar to come back to.

"Well," he began quietly, "I… I suppose I need to start getting some work done. I've not come back to make the office look geekier, you know."

His friends smiled and laughed, even though they thought his joke was stupid. They were glad to have him back, iPhone or no iPhone.

He watched and smiled politely as one colleague after another left, patting him on the back or shaking his hand as they went. It all felt rather surreal.

"Hello again, desk," he said quietly. He felt stupid for talking to the furniture but it was better than hallucinating Keats on it at the very least. He pulled out his chair and sank into it. It was like greeting an old friend. He looked around and couldn't help mentally picturing the place back in 1985. He could almost visualise Malcolm in one spot and Susannah in another. He could almost smell the whiskey that Gene Hunt kept in his filing cabinet. How could a fake 1985 still be so real to him?

He looked at the pictures on his desk, the ones he'd told Keats and Alex about to demonstrate that he had a life in 2010. A picture of his family at his sister's wedding, one of himself and Robin at a smart, black-tie dinner and one of his late mother. He also had a signed photo of the entire cast of Howard's Way but he wasn't quite sure where that came from.

Tiredly he picked up one of the files on his desk and leafed through it, trying to bring himself up to speed, but he kept finding himself distracted. As much as he tried to pay attention to the file on Flint and the millions of pounds he'd stolen electronically he kept thinking about warehouses filled with 80s goodies like Ataris and such. He thought about the computer he'd _borrowed_ from the raid and how he never quite got to play it.

Idly he switched on his computer and started browsing on Ebay for a second-hand one when the phone on his desk rang. He reached out to answer it, starting to feel like he'd never been away.

"Hello?"

"Hey you."

Simon gave a smile.

"Robin," he said quietly, "what are you doing on my work line?"

"You left your iPhone plugged in at home," Robin told him, "dummy!"

"I'm out of the work routine," Simon protested, "anyway, it's still nice to hear your voice."

"How's it going?" Robin asked.

"Fine," said Simon, "well, fine if your day usually involves the death of a colleague and wasting time on Ebay."

"Oh Si," Robin said sadly, "who died?"

"I'll tell you when you get home tonight," Simon told him, "I think I'd better get off the line and try to get some actual work done."

"I'll see you later then," said Robin, "and look after yourself."

"I always do," said Simon.

"Apart from your visit to the IT room…" Robin reminded him.

"Yeah, thanks for that," sighed Simon.

Robin laughed gently.

"See you tonight."

"Bye, Rob." Simon hung up the phone, giving a smile and finally feeling like he was getting back to normal but no sooner had he replaced the receiver than it rang again. He frowned and lifted the receiver. "Robin? What did you forget?"

There was a crackle, a flurry of static and then a voice.

"_Simon!" _

Simon froze.

"Who is this?"

"_Simon, you have to help me!"_ the voice wept, "_Find me… save me."_

"Alex?" Simon's heart stopped dead in his chest for a second then thumped like a big bass drum.

"_I know you won't let me down."_

"Alex, tell me what to do!" Simon urged, "how can I help if you… are you still there?" the line cut to silence, then a long tone. "Alex? _ALEX!"_

In a state of shock and panic Simon could do little but stare at the receiver and shake. As he regained a little power of thought he dialled 1471 and waited.

"_You were called today at nine-o-six a.m.… The caller withheld their number."_

"Bollocks!" Simon slammed the phone down and panted, quite out of breath. He got to his feet and began to call for Malcolm to help him find her, then realised neither Malcolm _nor_ Alex were anywhere he could reach out and touch. The eighties came crashing around him, all over again. He swore he could smell Webber's aftershave and feel the plaster cast around his foot. He felt as close to the experience as he had when he was living it.

He stared at various spots around the office. Why wasn't Susannah sitting there? Why wasn't Malcolm standing in his usual spot? Why wasn't Gene calling him Shoe-boy? Why didn't the office smell of smoke?

He carried on staring. The people he met weren't there now, but were they _ever_ there?

That one idle pondering was all it took. He couldn't believe the thought had never struck him before. Just because they did not exist in his office in 2010 it didn't mean they had _never_ existed. Could he have truly travelled to the past? Was he living amongst ghosts?

Shakily he turned to his computer, clicked Ebay off the screen and accessed the personnel database instead. He licked his lips, his heartbeat echoing through his head. Who should he look for first? Which one should he search out? The obvious choice was Alex, but he didn't feel he could go there. She'd been his one real ally in 1985 and he couldn't stand the thought of knowing for sure she was dead.

Webber? Well, he _would_ have searched for Webber but he couldn't remember his first name. He had the opposite problem with Malcolm _Whats-his-name_. He took a deep breath. Susannah. Susannah Kite. He knew her full name; she'd be the easiest one to look for.

With a nod, his fingers flittered over the keys and started to type her name into the search box. He'd got as far as _Susannah Ki- _when he froze. A deep, dark feeling of dread fell over him. He didn't know where it came from but it was strong, insistent and enough to paralyse his fingers. He swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse.

This was it, he thought.

The moment he would find out for absolutely sure, undeniably, whether 1985 was real or a dream.

The moment he finished typing her name and pressed return he would either see the face of his recent acquaintance and know that he had entered another world, or the screen would say 'No match found' and he would know every moment of the experience had been conjured up by his own mind.

A pain began to develop in his head. He thought about the implications of discovering that the people he met were real. Were they all in comas too? Or were they dead? That would make 1985 some kind of afterlife or he had bent the rules of time.

Then he thought about the implications of discovering that they had never existed. The whole experience had been a product of his own mind. He'd made up the whole thing, and now he was being haunted by people from his own head.

Which outcome did he want to be the real one? Which one would make him feel happiest? Which would scare him the most?

He tried to work out how he felt about it, but he came back again and again to one, simple answer.

He didn't know.

He just didn't know.

He rubbed his head desperately, the pain surging as he thought about it. There was no good answer to this question. No good could come from knowing one way or the other.

With a scream of frustration he closed the window, flicked off his monitor and threw a stapler across the room. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and desperately tried to cool the emotions raging through his veins before he kicked the desk and ended up with three broken toes again.

"I hate this," he whispered to himself, "I hate the way this is making me feel."

Keats may have stopped lurking in his food and on the TV but 1985 was still raging in his veins.


	6. Chapter 6: With Eyes Completely Open

_Apologies for the lack of updates this week. I've been suffering from migraines much of the last few days so I've been avoiding my laptop as much as possible and also have busted my right hand so typing's been slow and painful, hence why this chapter is short! Hopefully more will be up of both my current fics later, I'm getting frustrated with not writing!_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 6**

Simon concentrated very hard on calming his emotions. He paced around, he took a walk to the vending machine, he even tried to calm down by throwing paperclips at people in the car park out of his window, which wasn't like him but it gave him the distraction he needed.

Eventually he was able to focus enough to read some files, sign some papers and catch up with some of the cases his team had been working on. When it got to lunchtime and his first morning back was over he felt a little sad and thought about staying until the end of the day but a headache was threatening and he decided to call it a day while he was ahead.

* * *

He felt in much better spirits as he walked back to Robin's flat. Their temporary living arrangement had slowly moved into a more permanent situation. Neither of them had spoken about it but neither had mentioned any possibility of Simon returning home either. In fact, he'd started looking at selling his flat and working out how to fit his collection of vintage computer games consoles and horror DVDs into Robin's place.

The local paper had been delivered into the letterbox as he checked the post so he tucked it under his arm and made his way up a flight of stairs. He felt a little naughty being home halfway through the day, like a pupil skiving from double maths, but he was proud of himself. For the first time he actually felt like he was getting back to normal.

He walked into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, brewed a cup of tea and sank into the sofa to watch some rubbish daytime TV. There was a part - a _tiny_ part - of him that had actually started to enjoy it. He imagined having to watch Doctors on iPlayer when he was back at work full-time and facing teasing from Robin every time he found some cheesy antique-based programme recorded on the sky plus box.

He let his mind flick momentarily to his strange call as he ate his lunch. He didn't dwell on it, he didn't dare. He tried to resent a logical explanation to himself, despite the fact that every one he came up with seemed more far-fetched than thinking Alex really was trying to contact him. Eventually he became so wrapped up in watching the episode of _Murder She Wrote _that was airing for the eight billionth time that he stopped thinking about the call completely.

After a while he realised he already knew every line of the episode and decided to flick through the paper instead. The local rag was infamous for headlines such as _Bales of hay are stolen_ and _Arsonists set fire to log_ so he wasn't expecting it to be a riveting read but at the very least it would hopefully pass some time until Cbeebies started on BBC1.

He picked up the folded paper and scanned the headline.

_Young PC hailed hero after being mauled to death by savage dog._

Simon shuddered. He wasn't the world's biggest fan of canines. He'd been bitten by a poodle when he was four and since then found all dogs seemed to share a common hatred of him. With a sigh he unfolded the paper. The rest of the story and a photograph were revealed to him, and in that moment his whole world changed.

"Oh my god," he breathed, "n-no…. No, it's not possible…"

His lunch lurched into his throat and he had to fight hard not to lose it all over the floor. He felt a jolt as his heart thumped and the room seemed to spin out of control. One finger gently rose and touched the image in the photograph, trembling every inch of the way. He traced the outline of a familiar face, tears threatening to form in his eyes. He could hardly bring himself to read the rest of the article but forced himself eventually to go on. The words stung his heart.

'_A local PC with his whole career ahead of him has been posthumously hailed a hero after saving a three-your-old girl from the savage jaws of a crazed dog.'_

Simon didn't even have to read any further to find out the name of the young copper. He already knew him well enough.

"_Malcolm," _he whispered.

The smiling face in uniform stared back at him from the page. He could still see him standing in the corner of the office, back in 1985. He could hear his voice, picture his expression, remember every detail about him.

He tried to read more of the article but his eyes were misting up too much and he couldn't see beyond the fog of tears. He caught snatches of words; something about surgeons saving the girl's arm, Malcolm's throat being ripped out, some kind of posthumous award, other snatches of things that Simon couldn't quite knit together in his head.

The date on the paper was that very day. The attack had happened just two days before. The article spoke of Malcolm being on the beat for only a few weeks, certainly not for more than two decades. Simon almost choked on the reality that began to dawn on him. Malcolm had been real - _real._ Flesh, blood and bones. Living, breathing, existing. He'd shared the same air as Simon, walked on the same ground. They had occupied 2010 together. They had also occupied 1985 together.

Malcolm was as real as Simon was. Either they had both gone back in time or both entered some other realm together.

It wasn't a dream. It _was not_ a dream. 1985 had not been born from Simon's mind. It existed in some form, somehow, somewhere. The nature of his experience was still no clearer in his mind but he knew now that it had been real up to a point. The man on his paper who had died two days earlier had shaken his hand in 1985, some months ago. He'd made him tea, he'd had conversations with him, he'd signed his cast.

But he was dead.

There were too many possibilities. Too many implications to consider. Simon's fragile head felt as though it could explode at any time. Through the hundreds of distressing and frustrating thoughts that struck him with the force of a ten ton truck there was one that he couldn't shake; one that wouldn't go away.

If Malcolm was real then how tangible was Alex's existence? And if she was real then perhaps she truly needed his help.

Suddenly his head hurt like another file server had attacked him out of the blue. This was too much to process.


	7. Chapter 7: But Nervous All the Same

-1**Chapter 7**

"Hello? Simon?" Robin called cautiously through the flat, "are you home? Guess what I brought? Fish and chips!" There was no reply. "Si? Where are you? I brought us a treat for your first day back at work."

He reached the lounge door and peered around. Simon was sitting in silence, a glass of something he'd never drunk before in his hands. The sight shocked Robin and he faltered for words.

"Uh… what are you doing?" he asked quietly, "y…you're _drinking. _You _hate_ alcohol."

Simon barely looked up.

"I've had a bit of a shock," he said quietly.

Robin slowly made his way across the room and sat down beside him, leaving the fish and chips on the table.

"What's happened?" he asked.

Simon lifted the newspaper and handed it to Robin.

"I've lost a friend," he whispered.

Robin took the paper and scanned the headline.

"I heard about this," he said, "it was on the news yesterday. It's so sad… I didn't realise it was someone you knew."

Simon bit his lip. How on earth was he going to explain this?

"He was a… a colleague," he began.

Robin gave a little gasp as he remembered their brief conversation on the phone that morning.

"Oh, Si, I'm sorry, I forgot all about that," he began, "when you told me about it earlier you seemed… OK though."

Simon flinched for a moment. He'd forgotten about his Superintendent. He felt a little guilty.

"That… that was actually someone else," he said. He gave an ironic laugh and rubbed his temples. "I guess I've lost _two_ colleagues."

Robin gave a deep sigh and rubbed Simon's shoulder gently.

"I'm so sorry," he said quietly, "no wonder you're in shock. Do you want to talk about it?" he paused. "What happened this morning?"

Simon stared into his glass. _Start with the Super, _he thought. At least that wouldn't make him sound crazy.

"When I got to work this morning," he began, "I found out my Superintendent died while I was on sick leave. It was some kind of golfing accident… wild animals were involved…" he sighed. So much for not sounding crazy. "I don't know the details. I thought it best not to ask."

"Oh Si, I am so sorry," Robin shook his head slowly, "I can't believe nobody let you know at the time."

"I suppose they didn't want to make things worse for me while I was recovering," Simon guessed.

Robin looked at him sympathetically.

"What about…" he scanned the article for a name, "Malcolm? How did you know him?"

Simon closed his eyes for a moment. He felt a lump in his throat as he struggled to know where to begin.

"Please don't judge me," he whispered.

Robin moved back slightly. Those words didn't sound good.

"Simon, what's wrong?" he asked, "you're starting to worry me."

Simon took a deep breath.

"I met Malcolm in nineteen eighty-five," he said.

Robin froze. He wasn't sure what to say to that. It had been the last thing he'd expected to hear.

"You… haven't even mentioned your coma for days," he whispered, "where has this come from?"

"It's not '_come' _from anywhere," Simon shook his head, "this isn't a nightmare or a dream or any kind of hallucination, this is the front cover of the local paper!"

"But… but this was a young man!" Robin protested, "he couldn't have been in nineteen eighty five. I don't think he was even born yet!"

"I don't know how to explain this to you," Simon told him, "I met him when I was in that… strange, strange place. I thought my mind made it all up. I thought it was a dream I had while I was unconscious. But it wasn't. Malcolm was there too. He died, and he went back in time, just like I did."

"But this guy only just died," said Robin, "Your accident happened months ago."

"I didn't say I could _explain_ it!" Simon protested, "why do you think I'm sitting in silence, drinking something that tastes like vomit, trying to work the damn thing out?"

Robin sighed and blinked slowly. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say.

"Si…" he began quietly, "there must be… hundreds of Malcolms in the world. It's not that unusual a name."

"What, you think it wasn't the _face_ I recognised?" said Simon, "Rob, I _knew_ this guy. He was sweet and funny, really helpful, a bit naïve… never knocked before entering a room, spoke first and thought later… but he was just a _really_ nice bloke."

Robin hesitated.

"Maybe… maybe you'd seen this Malcolm around somewhere at work," he said, "and when you were… asleep your mind just recreated him because you needed people to dream about."

"He's not from our station," Simon shook his head, "and besides, how would I know his name?"

Robin was out of ideas. He was the kind of man who liked to find a logical explanation for things, even ridiculous things like Noel Edmonds' old jumpers. This was one time he had drawn a complete and total blank. He looked directly at Simon and took his hand.

"OK," he said quietly.

"OK?"

"OK, something strange has gone on here," Robin agreed, "I don't know what it is and I really can't explain it. I _want_ to find an explanation for you, so you can carry on making great progress and put your accident behind you, just like you had been doing until today. But I can't tell you how you met a man in the past who you didn't really know existed until today. And I can't explain why one dead guy and one dying guy ended up in the same dream or whatever it was you had. I don't know, Simon. I wish I did because I hate seeing you like this, but I don't."

Simon started to feel a little guilty. He didn't know what more he expected from Robin. He'd already stood by him through some very turbulent months and put up with his nightmares and freak-outs. He'd done everything he could to help Simon get over the experience he'd been through and yet Simon couldn't thank him by standing up and saying, _yes, 1985 was just a dream._

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I can't explain this to you any better because unless you've been through it you'll never understand how real the world was to me. Now I've found out someone I knew in that world is… _was… _as real as I am. I can't say for certain that the others aren't real too. Maybe they died… maybe they're _going_ to die. Maybe they're stuck somewhere between life and death. I don't have it in me to find out. It's too much."

Robin hesitated.

"Do… do you want _me_ to find out for you?" he whispered.

Simon hesitated.

"What?"

"I could look for you," Robin said quietly, "and then you could decide if you were ready to know."

Simon swallowed.

"You'd do that for me?" he asked.

Robin gave a tiny shrug.

"I want to help you," he said, "and I think finding out what's real and what isn't will be the only way to do that."

Simon took in a very deep breath and let it out slowly. He wasn't sure what to say, he wasn't even sure what his answer was. Finally he began to speak.

"Robin," he began quietly, "that means the world to me. It truly does. But I'm not sure I'm ready, for _either_ of us to know. I just lost a friend today… however real or otherwise nineteen eighty five was, Malcolm was a genuinely lovely guy. I don't want to lose Alex and Susannah and Webber as well."

Robin sighed deeply.

"I can understand that," he said. He took the glass from Simon and sat it on the table. "Listen," he began, "I know I wasn't there, and I know that I'll never understand what that world meant to you but I am always here to listen. So any time you're ready to find out… any time you want to know for sure… I'll be by your side. OK?"

Simon have a thankful smile.

"OK," he said quietly.

Robin slowly got to his feet.

"Are you ready for some fish and chips?" he asked gently.

Simon wasn't really hungry but nodded anyway.

"Yes please," he said.

He watched Robin lift the bag and carry it through to the kitchen to serve out their treat, then glanced back at the newspaper Robin had left on the arm of the couch. Malcolm's smiling face looked back at him.

"I never even got to say goodbye," he said sadly.

That was one of the hardest parts of the situation for Simon. He'd never had a chance to say goodbye - to Malcolm, to Alex, or to 1985. It was no wonder he still felt like he was in limbo.

"_Simon! Chips!" _Robin called as a reminder.

Simon sighed and lifted his glass from the table, downed the rest of the whiskey and pulled a face. It still tasted of something awful but he needed _something._ Since he didn't have any of his favourite blue and white pills from 1985 the foul-tasting liquid would have to do.


	8. Chapter 8: To Feel All the Hard Times

**Chapter 8**

It was the first nightmare he'd had in days and days. He was unprepared for it. Even after the events of the previous day he'd gone to bed as normal, not a second thought about what would happen after he closed his eyes.

The darkness seemed to go on forever. It was a dense blackness, there was nothing to see, no chink of light in the distance, no hope amid the despair. There was an ache in his chest as the air once again proved too thick to breathe and he struggled to take in any oxygen.

"_Alex?"_ he cried out, "_Alex? Are you here?"_

This time there was no reply, no voices, no cries for help.

"_Alex!" _he tried desperately, "_Alex, I want to help you but I don't know how!"_

"_And you never will,"_ Keats hissed angrily, appearing in front of his face from thin air.

-x-

Simon screamed, woke up and sat bolt upright in bed. He panted and gasped, terrified of the man who was haunting him once again. He looked to one side and saw Robin still fast asleep. How had he slept through Simon's anxious wake-up call? There was a part of Simon that wanted to wake him up, to be held and comforted, and a part of him that was glad he wouldn't have to explain that the nightmares were back.

He laid back down and closed his eyes. He really hoped that he could fall back to sleep and end the night peacefully but all he could think about was that evil face and the sneering voice. He tried turning over in bed a few times but started resembling an egg whisk and decided to stop tossing and turning.

He got to his feet and tiptoed to the lounge. Switching on a small lamp, he blinked to adjust to the light and pulled out the paper again. He traced his finger around the edge of the photograph. It was real, as real as his reflection in the mirror, as real as the socks he wore on his feet, as real as the ticking of the clock beside him.

For all he had said to Robin earlier he realised that he was increasingly convinced that Malcolm was not the only person he met who was a part of his own world. The others had to be real too, there was very little doubt in his mind.

"Maybe I was supposed to die," he whispered to himself. Why else would he end up in some kind of parallel universe with one confirmed dead man and countless other possible ones too? Perhaps he wasn't supposed to wake from his coma. Had he cheated death? Had he pissed death off good and proper?

He thought about Keats and the angry words from his nightmare. That was someone who he had _definitely_ pissed off, no doubt about it. Keats had tried hard to take him for his own purpose in 1985, whatever that might have been. Now, Simon wondered, was he still in pursuit of the one who got away?

"You're not getting me, Keats," he said out loud as though to reassure himself, "it doesn't matter what you do."

It could have been the whisper of a breeze in the air outside but just for a moment Simon felt sure he heard an angry growl of disagreement.

It took an hour for Simon to fall asleep in an armchair, then another hour after that to wake up with a crick in his neck. He muttered to himself under his breath and crept to the window where he opened the blinds to reveal the beginning of a sunrise. It was clear that was as much sleep as he was going to get that night.

An early breakfast followed. The washing up came next. Then there was a lot of pottering. Finally Robin appeared and found breakfast already made for him, along with his clothes ironed, packed-lunch made and wallet and keys placed ready on the table.

"Wow," he said with a little smile, "what's all this in aid of?"

"I couldn't sleep," Simon yawned, "so I thought I'd make myself useful."

Robin slipped into a chair and found a stack of toast placed in front of him, along with two boiled eggs which were ready and waiting.

"I'm sorry you didn't have a very good night," he said gently, "but I'm more than happy to eat the evidence!"

Simon slumped into a chair and watched Robin tucking into his breakfast. He felt too tired to make conversation. Besides, he had so much going through his mind that he couldn't get his thoughts straight.

On one of the many read-throughs of the newspaper article he'd undertaken in the last few hours he had noticed a small ceremony was to take place that day in tribute. Malcolm's body wouldn't be released for burial for a while so his work colleagues were holding a small celebration of his life which his family were also attending.

Simon couldn't get the thought out of his mind. He'd only known Malcolm for a short time but he still considered him a friend and colleague. He felt as though he had as much right as anyone to say goodbye, so when Robin had finished eating and set off to work he made the decision to don his smartest suit and attend.

* * *

There may have been no body but the ceremony still felt like a funeral. As soon as Simon crept into the community centre he was greeted by a mass of black ties, sobbing guests and distraught friends and relatives. He began to feel out of place and wondered for a moment whether he had any place to be there, but Malcolm had seemed like such a nice person, he wanted to learn a little more about him.

At the front of the hall was a big, smiling photograph of Malcolm, donning his smart uniform. Underneath it the dates read; "1987-2010". Simon's heart sank. He was so _young._ He'd had his whole life ahead of him. He scratched his head as he thought about the young copper he met in 1985. Maybe, back there, he still had a whole life to lead. He took a seat at the back and tried to stay in the background.

"What am I doing here?" he whispered to himself.

A woman in a black veil slipped into the chair beside him which made him feel a little uncomfortable. He tried to shuffle to one side and slid down in his seat a little. As he busied himself hiding his face from the crowd someone stood up and began to speak. He watched as the bead of Malcolm's shift began to talk about the eager young recruit that had touched so many lives. It seemed so strange to hear someone else talking about him. The same person, but a while different world. It made Simon shudder.

He listened to stories of Malcolm as a child from his mother, of Malcolm on the beat from his colleagues and of Malcolm as a person from his friends. It was the most surreal moment of Simon's life, and that included waking up in 1985.

An hour passed. Two hours. Finally the service came to an end and Malcolm's nearest and dearest were dismissed to go and munch on sandwiches for the rest of the day. Simon noticed for the first time that the woman beside him had disappeared. How had he not noticed her leaving? He must have been so absorbed in the ceremony that he'd zoned out for a while.

He got to his feet and his eyes scanned the room. There at the front of the hall stood Malcolm's mother, adopting a false smile to thank those who approached her to offer their condolences. There was a part of Simon that felt wrong about doing what he was about to do but a bigger part of him that wanted to speak to her in person, so he slowly made his way to the front and stood just behind the group of men in uniform who were all nodding politely and paying their respects.

As they left he sidled up to her and gave a thin smile.

"Uh, Mrs, erm…" he realised to, even though he'd read the article many times, he had still not taken in Malcolm's surname, "uh… I wanted to tell you how sorry I am."

Malcolm's mother gave yet another forced smile.

"Thank you," she said quietly, "did you work with Malcolm?"

"Uh… kind of," Simon said honestly, "I only knew him for a short time but he was such a nice guy. He looked after me when I broke my toes, make sure I always had a chair to rest my foot on, brought me cups of tea."

The woman nodded gently.

"That's my Malcolm," she said quietly.

Simon could see the pain in her eyes. It broke his heart to see. He couldn't imagine the pain of losing a son, especially when his life had just begun. He wished she could see for herself that Malcolm had a whole new life starting. He wished that he could tell her what he'd seen. He bit his lip nervously.

"Uh… I know this is going to sound trite," he began quietly, "but Malcolm… he's in a good place."

The woman closed her eyes. She bristled visibly.

"Oh, _please_ don't give me the God talk," she said crossly, "I'm an atheist at the best of times. I can't see that any kind of god would let a mother have to mourn her own son."

"No, no," Simon shook his head, "I don't mean heaven… goodness, no, I'm an atheist too… I just mean…" He closed his eyes. Why had he started this? He knew there was no good way of ending that sentence. "I mean… he…. I saw him."

The woman frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I was in a coma, OK," Simon's heart began to race, "and I went to this place… in the past… Malcolm was there. He's OK."

What followed Simon's ill-thought out words was silence. A long, deathly silence. He didn't know what else he had expected, really. He tried to put himself in Malcolm's mother's place and imagine what he might have said, but he couldn't. he looked at her expectantly, hoping she would reply but silence prevailed. Finally, when it seemed that no one would ever speak again, the woman slowly opened her mouth and began to speak.

"I think," she began dryly, "that I am going to call the police and tell them there is a mad man at my only son's _funeral!"_

"N-no! No!" Simon protested, "I'm sorry, that didn't come out right…"

"How else could it come out?" the woman cried, "You've just told me you visited my son in the afterlife! You're crazy! Where are you from? One of the papers? The TV? A news channel? Just a freak who's wandered in off the street?"

"No, I'm not, I promise," Simon faltered, "I'm sorry, I'm just telling you the truth. I thought you'd want to know that I've seen him and he's… he's doing OK."

The woman swallowed hard to stop herself from producing a river of tears. She looked Simon directly in the eye.

"My son," she began quietly, "is laying in a mortuary, on a slab somewhere, while a coroner tries to decide which bite was the one that killed him. I had to identify his body. I had to see the marks and the blood and the…" she flinched, "the horrible, gaping wounds. I'll have to remember that for the rest of my life, while you'll go home and have a good laugh at my expense. Now, I suggest you leave before I ask one of the many officers of the law to remove you."

Simon opened his mouth to reply. He didn't know what he was going to say. Defend himself? Repeat what he'd already said? Show her his badge? None of them would do any good, he was sure of that. Eventually he hung his head. He wished he'd never started this.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I just… wish I could explain it better."

"Out," The woman hissed.

Simon took a deep breath and gave a slow nod. He turned and walked quickly from the hall. He was angry with himself for even attending, even more so for speaking to Malcolm's mother, but also angry with her for not understanding.

No one understood. No matter how hard they tried, no one could understand - unless they had been through it too.

* * *

That miserable realisation was the thought that ran over and over in Simon's mind as he took himself home. He couldn't think about anything else, just that his time in 1985 had changed his whole world and he could never quite return to being the man he used to be.

As he stepped through the front door the bottle called him again. He remembered seeking refuge under the blanket of alcohol the day before, for the first time in his life. He'd only managed to take a small amount of the foul-tasting liquid into him before Robin arrived him but the numbness that followed had been a blessed relief from the pain he felt after his discovery.

Although it was only midday he poured himself a glass and downed it with speed. He gagged a little at the taste, but found it easier to take than the day before. He knew deep down this wasn't going to solve anything but he was desperate to forget the events of that morning and to put it behind him, just as he'd tried to with every aspect of his coma experience.

_Just one more,_ he thought. _One more glass, one more taste, and then everything would slip away_. One more glass followed another. A fourth followed their tail. Before too long, Simon could hardly remember his own name or the colour of the sky, but even so the pain of that morning remained. What would it take to truly forget? Short of another server in the head, Simon had no idea.


	9. Chapter 9: To Lay Down the Hard Lines

**Chapter 9**

Simon hardly recognised himself. He couldn't believe he was pouring another drink. It wasn't as though he hadn't thrown up already. He felt as though he was out of control and it was more than his encounter with Malcolm's mother that morning.

What was it? The whole thing? The realisation that at least one person he met in his coma was real? Or was this still because he was adjusting to the real world and struggling with it? He really though he was doing so well until the previous day, too.

"Or maybe this stuff is just a temptress," Simon considered, staring blearily at the bottle on the table and tracing a finger up and down the label. He had never done the teenage rebellion thing. Never felt the need. He'd never taken up smoking or drinking and his most rebellious act was probably nipping in the ladies' toilets when he was really desperate and there was someone in the gents'.

"What's happening to me?" Simon whispered. He could hardly see straight by now and wasn't even sure which of the three glasses rotating in his field of vision to pour the liquid into. He looked at the clock and tried to make out what the time was. He wasn't sure, but he figured it was at _least_ half past Robin. Robin should have been home by now. Where on earth was he?

In all honestly, Simon was torn about whether he wanted Robin to find him in such a state. He didn't want a lecture or any kind of disapproval but he felt like he needed help. He needed someone to hold his hand and tell him everything was OK. There was a part of him that wanted Robin to see him like this and realise that he needed something more than a shoulder to cry on - and to help him figure out what he _did_ need instead.

He got to his feet and the room spun several times. Holding onto every piece of furniture on the way, he entered the hall and fished for his iPhone from his jacket pocket. It was strange; before the accident he was practically glued to the device. Now he couldn't face checking it more than once a day.

Simon couldn't decipher anything on the screen so he checked his voicemail and found a message from Robin.

"_Hi Si, I'm sorry I'm going to be late. It could be a few hours until I'm back. Drugs raid… they needed the dogs down there. I'll be home as soon as I can. Love you."_

"Damn it," Simon cursed at his phone. He was about to hang up when another message began to play. For a moment he froze, startled. There was only supposed to be one message, wasn't there? That's what the voice had said. What on earth was -

"_Simon!"_

Simon gasped. Half a bottle of brandy threatened to escape from his mouth.

"Oh God, no, not this again," he whispered.

"_Simon… FIND me… please, Simon… I'm closer than you think… before it's too late…"_

"No, no, no… Alex," Simon cried into the air, "don't do this to me! I don't know how to help you!"

The message continued.

"_Look for me,"_ her voice pleased through static, "_he's getting closer."_

"Who is?" cried Simon, even though he knew Alex couldn't hear him, "Is it Keats? Is it…" but the phone died in his hands. He stared at it, aghast, the battery suddenly empty of charge. It had been half full a few minutes previously.

He felt his heart pounding and his legs gave way from under him. He gripped the door frame to stay upright. \His breathing became fast and erratic and his palms were sweating.

"I can't help you!" he screamed, "Stop asking me, Alex! I can't… I can't do a thing!"

For the briefest moment he thought he could see a glimpse of her, standing beside him, but the moment he turned around she was gone.

That was as much as he could take. He grabbed his keys and stumbled out the door, fleeing the flat and walking as far as his legs would take him. He Didn't know where he was going and he didn't even care. He just needed to get as far away from there as possible.

"_Robin," _he whispered. That was who he needed. All he needed to do was to find Robin and everything would be alright. He trudged to the station on autopilot, his vision blurred and his co-ordination non-existent. He was vaguely aware of an old lady shaking her fist at him when he fell into her shopping trolley and some youths taking the piss out of him for being a drunk. He didn't even care.

His head was growing ever fuzzier as he reached the station. By now he could hardly walk, he couldn't see and he couldn't string two words together. He felt his way along the walls to edge inside and began to call for the man who could make everything alright.

"_Robin?"_ he cried, stumbling against the wall, "Robin? I need you!"

He was vaguely aware of someone catching his arm as he fell and someone else trying to help him back into an upright position.

"Are you alright, sir?" a female voice asked, but he couldn't even locate which face the voice belonged to, let alone focus.

"I need t'see Robin," he slurred, slumping against the wall again.

"Robin who, Sir?"

"Robin! My _boyfriend _Robin!"

"That's DCI Shoebury!" a male voice cried in surprise.

"Christ, he's had a tankful!" the first voice said in surprise, "are you sure it's him?"

"Sir?" someone spoke close to his face as though he was crazy or half deaf, "can you hear me?"

"Course I can bloody hear you," Simon swung and arm around and narrowly avoided clobbering him.

"Right, I think we'd better get him in the cells," the female voice said crossly.

"Do you think we should call his Super?" someone else piped up.

"No need," another voice came closer, "I'll deal with this. I'll take him home."

"Do you know him?"

"I work under his Superintendent. I know of him."

Simon felt himself being shoved.

"He's all yours," the female voice said crossly, "it'll save us the paperwork."

"And the hassle," someone else added.

Simon had lost control of his legs and forgotten how to speak by now. He closed his eyes so that the blurs around him would become a little less threatening and allowed himself to be half-dragged out of the building and across the car park. After a few moments he opened his eyes and tried desperately to focus but couldn't see much beyond a dark coat.

"Who th'ell are you?" he slurred.

"Your guardian angel," the man spoke with a voice he felt sure he recognised but couldn't quite place, "how did you get into this state, son?"

"Saw too much of the world," Simon murmured.

He felt the dragging come to a sudden halt and found himself propped against the side of something large and metallic, presumably a car.

"Just hold on, I'll get you in the back," the man told him.

"Ugh, might not get that far," Simon doubled over and regurgitated half a bottle of booze onto the tarmac. He coughed and spluttered, slightly aware of a hand on his back.

"Better out than in," the man commented, then seemed to give a short laugh that Simon couldn't quite understand. He retched again but nothing came out. He closed his eyes and rubbed his head. Nothing seemed any clearer for being purged of the alcohol. In fact, his head was just spinning more.

"I… I think I'm OK now," he gulped, wiping his face and trying to stand. He found the stranger helping him to his feet and gently but firmly pushing him into the back of his car.

"Lay down if you want," he said, "close your eyes. Might help you stop the world spinning."

Simon heard the door slam, then a few vague footsteps followed by the driver's door opening and the stranger climbing in. He still couldn't focus enough to see the stranger, nor string a sentence together to either say thank-you or to voice his fears about what was going on. He laid down and pulled his knees up to his chest for comfort.

"D'you know where I live?" he muttered.

"I know where Robin lives," the man told him, "will that do?

Simon mumbled something and nodded.

"Good," the stranger said and started the engine, "I'll get you home safely."

The last thing Simon remembered was hearing the opening bars of _Fast Love _and the stranger muttering something about it not being _'like the old days' _before he passed out and a blessed darkness took him over for the rest of the journey.


	10. Chapter 10: it's Absolutely True

_It has been a long time since I have written. I have been frustrated at not being able to complete this story - I hate abandoning something halfway through. I have had some health issues and been extremely busy with work as well. But Simon's been nagging away in the back of my mind so hopefully I will be able to finish this story at last. Thank you to everyone who has read this in the past and I hope you will continue to read -x-_

**Chapter 10**

There was some kind of hammer beating away at his head. That was the first thing Simon registered as he slowly came around the following morning. If it wasn't a hammer then it was some kind of pneumatic drill.

He couldn't place what had happened, or where he was, or _who_ he was for that matter. He tried to open his eyes but didn't quite manage it. Between the desert-dry tongue in his fuzzy mouth, the throbbing pain between his temples and the bright daylight that was trying to keep his eyes firmly shut, he knew something was very seriously wrong.

He managed to prise his eyelids open for just a second before the sunlight sealed them shut again. He whimpered a little as the beating of his headache became stronger and louder.

"What happened?" he murmured to himself. Another one-second attempt at eye-opening occurred, which was only marginally more successful than the first. "Ugggggggghhhh…"

He stayed where he was for a moment, trying to piece together the events that had left him in this situation. He vaguely remembered alcohol. That unfamiliar beast that he had turned to out of sheer desperation. Desperation caused by… what was it again?

Malcolm. Malcolm's memorial.

"Shit," he whispered, running his hand through his hair and rubbing his temples.

He recalled getting scared and upset, and feeling quite desperate for Robin to get home. He remembered, in some vague way, an ill-advised excursion to meet him, and someone helping him into a car…. Then… Nothing.

One more attempt at opening his eyes was a little more successful. Three whole seconds of opened-eyes resulted, which was a definite improvement. As they closed again, a strange sight filtered through to his consciousness and he forced himself to open them once again to see what he only half-registered.

On the bedside cabinet beside him were two cigarettes, stubbed out on a small plate.

"What the -?" Simon finally found himself more awake as he jolted upright in bed to take a better look.

"…_I'll just put you to bed…."_ a ghost of a memory came back to him as he stared at the strange sight, "_…make sure you're alright before I go…"_

"What… _who…?" _Simon could hear the voice running through his memory as plain as anything but couldn't place the face, nor what occurred before or after it had spoken.

He took in his surroundings a little more closely. Beside the plate with the cigarette ends he saw a mug with a half-finished cup of strong, black coffee, an empty condom wrapper and a pair of spectacles.

"W-what the…?" Simon couldn't seem to finish a thought, much less a sentence. He glanced down and found himself topless at the very least. Whoever had helped him into bed had helped him _out_ of something else. "But… but… This doesn't make any sense!" he protested to himself. Nervously he peeled back the covers and found himself naked, except for a pair of Garfield socks. He flinched as a memory thrust into his head like a sledgehammer.

"…_You just need someone to hold your hand… to be there for you…"_

He blinked, rubbed his eyes and tried to bring his memories into clearer focus but there were some alarming gaps. He thrust his hands to his head as more of the previous day started coming back to him. He remembered arriving back at Robin's in the stranger's car and being helped up to the flat. He didn't remember getting in, he didn't think he'd used a key at all but couldn't really place how else he would have made it in. He recalled being vaguely aware that the stranger was there too, forcing him to drink a glass of water and putting him to bed, but as far as he recalled this all happened with a full set of clothes upon his body.

"…_.Oh dear, Simon, what would Robin say if he saw you in this state?"_

Every line that came back to him made Simon flinch. He could hear the words but still not see the features of the man who had invaded his home.

A stale smell of smoke hung in the air as he tried to move his legs out of the bed. To his horror they felt weak and he could hardly stand on his own two feet. The room was swimming and his limbs felt heavy as he tried to locate some clothes and pull them on.

"Oh god… oh _god…"_ he breathed, unsure what to do next. He had to sit down to get his underpants over his feet because his balance had disappeared and his trousers gave him an even more difficult mission to conquer. Just as he was struggling with the zip, another memory forced itself into his head. It was a fuzzier memory, one that he could hardly recall at all until he fought harder and harder to piece it back together. He remembered being halfway through the second cup of strong, black coffee he'd been forced to 'sober him up' when everything started to swim around him. He last memory he could place before the darkness overtook him was of a face with chilling familiarity closing in over him, and a voice that whispered,

"…_Guess what, Shoebury? You're not the only one who made it home."_

A lump rose in Simon's throat. Suddenly he felt as though he needed to run, to get away, to outrun the memory before the rest of it caught up with him. He stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hallway, into the kitchen where a sheet of paper lay on the table. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly across to it and lifted it with a trembling hand.

"_Simon,_" Robin's familiar handwriting flowed across the page, "_No matter what you have been through, nothing excuses infidelity. Be gone from my flat by the time I get home. Goodbye."_

"N-no," Simon stuttered, "Robin, no…"

He began to feel violently sick, the room spinning and rotating around him faster and faster. He stumbled backwards at the memory of hands undoing his shirt buttons and disjointed whispers entering his ear. He felt something overcome him as blackness took over and he fell to the ground, blacking out with one final memory standing firm in his mind.

Finally, he saw in his minds eye the face of the man who had taken him home, who had come to his 'rescue', shown him compassion and then turned in the blink of an eye.

"_Keats,_" He whispered with a choked breath as he closed his eyes and let the darkness overcome him.

Compared to the realisation that had hit him, blacking out was most definitely for the best.


	11. Chapter 11: Nothing Much Could Happen

**Chapter 11**

Simon came around a few minutes later and hauled his lifeless body slowly onto a chair at the kitchen table. He rested his head in his hands, his elbows pressing hard into the surface of the kitchen table. Nothing made sense. _Nothing!_ The vague memories and snatches of one-sided conversation were floating around his head but he couldn't find any sort of logical order to them.

He knew for sure he would never, ever cheat on Robin, no matter how intoxicated he might have been. But that didn't explain the situation he'd woken up in or the note left for him by the man he loved.

"None of this makes sense," he whispered. Slowly he got to his feet and made his way to the phone, which he swiped and sat back down. Rubbing his temples with one hand, he jabbed at the phone with his other and dialled Robin's mobile number. He wasn't surprised when it went straight to voicemail. He took a deep breath and tried to work out what on earth to say.

"Robin," he was surprised by how weak and broken his voice sounded as he spoke, "I don't even know what to say to you right now, except… whatever you're thinking… whatever you thought you saw… it's not what you think." He flinched at the clichéd phrase. "The truth is, I don't know what happened last night, but I know I didn't cheat on you. I _wouldn't._ I have too much to lose. You're…" he tried to find a term or phrase strong enough to describe how he felt about Robin but struggled to put it into words. "You mean more to me than a stupid voice mail is going to get across. " he swallowed hard. "I've been set up, Robin. I don't know how and I don't know why b-but I think I know… by who… even though it seems… ridiculous." He could feel a flashback on the edge of his memory and fought to keep it away while he left his message. "Please don't throw everything away over this, Robin. I need you." he paused. "I _love_ you." he paused again. "Please call me."

As he hung up, the memory burst forth from his subconscious, the feeling of two strong hands gripping his shoulders and laying him down. He remembered trying to fight it but his body wasn't working. His limbs had given up and his mind was giving in to darkness.

He flinched hard, rubbed his eyes to dispel the memory and picked up the phone again. Hitting number six on speed dial, he waited for his call to be answered. When someone picked up, he didn't even wait to hear a voice before he said urgently,

"Is Robin there? I need to speak to Robin."

There was a moment of hesitation on the line before a female voice came on.

"Uh… who's calling please?"

"It's Simon…" Simon began, "Uh, DCI Shoebury."

"Oh," the voice sounded strained.

Simon bit his lip.

"Something the matter?"

"Well… no, Sir," the woman began, "except… Robin told me that if you called I was to tell you that cheating scum like you could take your iPhone and jam it up your…"

"Yes, thank you," Simon interrupted, flinching at the thought. He took a deep breath and sighed. "Can you at least give him a message from me?"

"I can't promise he'll listen, Sir," the voice said apologetically.

"Just… just tell him to check his messages," Simon said quietly, " I said everything there."

"I don't know if he can," said the voice, "I think he had plans for sticking his _own_ phone up your…"

"OK, OK, I get the message, I'm noticing the theme here," Simon sighed. He paused. "Thank you," he said quietly and hung up again.

The memories were starting to flood back now, in random orders that only served to confuse and distress him further. He remembered crashing onto the bed as someone drew the curtains to _'block out the brightness so you can get some _sleep' but only served to mask the features of the stranger. He remembered the first cup of black coffee being thrust upon him, the bitter taste making him gag but listening like a fool when he was told it would help to clear his head.

The face came back to him again, the smirk, the raising of the eyebrow, one hand reaching forward and cupping his head as the room swam.

"_No!"_ he cried out loud, unsure whether his cry was just in response to the memory or whether he had cried out at the time as well.

The ringing of the phone made him jump and gasp, shaking away the unfathomable memories. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself before answering the call, praying with every fibre of his body that Robin would be on the end of the line.

"H-hello?" he began quietly.

"Sir?"

Simon frowned.

"Sally?"

"Sir, the Super is going crazy," his DI's voice came over the line, "you had an appointment to see him this morning. To discuss your progress and how you were coping, being back."

Simon closed his eyes and cursed inwardly. He hadn't even thought about work. He squinted at the clock, his vision still not 100% and saw it was nearing eleven.

"Sally, I need you to cover for me," he began, I'm… I'm not feeling well, I just need some time to…"

"Sir…"

"…get myself together and…"

"_Simon…"_

Simon stopped talking.

"Yes?"

"It's all round the station," Sally said quietly.

Simon swallowed.

"What is?"

"About you… last night," Sally began apologetically, "turning up, looking for Robin… drunk… shouting… Sir, I don't think the Super is going to be very happy if you don't show up as soon as is humanly possible."

Simon took a deep breath.

"What do you _mean_ it's all round the station?" he whispered.

"Everyone is talking about it," Sally said quietly, "they're all saying you came back too soon… they think you need more treatment."

Simon clenched his fist.

"And what does the Super think?" he asked through gritted teeth.

He heard sally sigh on the line.

"The Super thinks you need to spend more time with your friends and family," she said sadly.

Simon felt involuntary tears pricking his eyes.

"I can't lose my job and my boyfriend in one day," he hissed, shaking from head to toe.

"Just get here," Sally urged him, "damage limitation. Get in, do some fast talking - you can get out of this, I know you can."

Simon felt a tear roll down his cheek. He didn't have her faith, that was for certain.

"Bye, Sally," he whispered and hung up before she could reply. For a few moments he stared at the phone in his hands, unsure what to do for the best. He just wanted to die; to slip into darkness and never wake up.

His mouth felt dry and his throat raw. Slowly, he got to his feet, slouched across to the sink and filled a glass with water which he downed quickly. It helped to take the edge off of his thirst but did little to calm the trauma he was going through inside.

As he placed the glass down beside the sink his attention was caught by two tea spoons. He wasn't sure what made him reach out and pick them up but something seemed amiss. On closer inspection he noticed a white, powdery residue covering the back of one spoon and the front of the other, as though something had been ground to a powder between them. He chewed on his lip and felt his heart beginning to pound. The coffees - the damn black coffees. He touched the spoon with his finger and a tiny amount of powder came away.

"This sure as hell isn't sugar," he murmured to himself.

The realisation settled upon him like a dark cloud over his spirit. The drink wasn't the only thing that had knocked him out the previous night. Whatever Keats had given to him it was enough to knock him out for hours on end. Recovering the memories of what happened in the meanwhile - now _that_ was something that scared him to the core.


	12. Chapter 12: Nothing We Can't Shake

**Chapter 12**

Simon pulled his coat around him as he trudged along. It wasn't all that cold, but he was shivering. With every step he tried to fight away the memories and tears but it was getting harder. In his hand, he tightly clutched a bag that contained what he hoped would give him some answers. Why did the walk seem to be taking so long? Was he really being so slow? Or did he just have too many thoughts filling his mind.

As he reached the station, he took a deep breath. He felt nausea rising inside of him. In all the years he had been working at Fenchurch, not once had be been the other side of the deal. He didn't recall ever reporting a crime in his life, apart from the time someone had graffitied _'Shoebury Needs Odour Eaters' _on the side of his first car.

As he followed his footsteps from the light before and entered the part of the building where he usually didn't roam unless he was looking for Robin, but this time Robin was the one person he hoped to avoid.

What had happened to him? He was a shadow of the man he used to be. He remembered what he was like before 1985 had changed him. OK, he might have been a bit of a geek, he loved his gadgets and should probably have joined iPhone Addicts Anonymous but he was a strong man. He was confrontational, not afraid to speak his mind. He stood up for himself, he had ambition and he knew how to get a job done well. He knew CID inside-out, he was self-assured and he had a life. Now everything was being taken away from him a little at a time.

It was time to fight back; to take back his pride and his strength. This was the first step.

"Can I help you, sir?" a gentleman at the desk looked at him, "Oh… _DCI Shoebury? What…? _Can we help you with something?"

Simon closed his eyes for just a moment, the room starting to spin again, and clenched the desk with one hand to steady himself.

"I would like to report," he began, his voice still trembling, "a drugging and…" he flinched, "a possible assault."

The man on the desk looked confused for a moment.

"Is this a CID case?" he asked.

Simon bit his lip.

"No," he whispered, "It's me."

Silence fell as every uniformed officer in the building seemed to freeze. Conversations ended, stares turned to the DCI standing at the desk and Simon felt 100% certain he heard an actual, bone fide pin drop somewhere around the far end of the room.

For a horrible moment Simon wondered if time had frozen. He remembered watching _Out of this World_ as a teenager and always wished he'd had Evie's power to stop time. Now he'd apparently found the technique.

Luckily, before he tried clapping to bring them round a young woman came forward and looked at him with sympathy.

"It's Simon, isn't it?" she said quietly. She watched Simon nod. "I'm Kelly. We met at the Christmas doo last year." She could see that Simon didn't quite recognise her and tried to jog his memory. "When Robin brought one of the dogs straight from a raid and he ate my coat? The dog, I mean, not Robin."

Simon did recall the incident, as well as Robin's ill-advised re-enactment of it a few days later.

"Yeah, I remember," he said quietly.

"I'm just coming out the front," Kelly said quietly, "and then I'll take you through to somewhere quieter where we can go through what's happened."

Simon nodded slowly and tried to ignore two officers in the background who were nudging each other and whispering _"…had a skinful last night."_

"Thank you," he said quietly.

He waited for Kelly to emerge from her side of the desk and allowed himself to be led along a corridor and round a corner to an unfamiliar part of the station where suddenly everything looked very different. With some horror he realised he was being led to the rape suite and a moment of panic hit him as the realisation of how little he could remember started to really sink in.

"Just wait here while I make sure this room is empty," Kelly told him. She paused. "Would you rather have a male officer taking your statement?"

Simon shook his head.

"No," he whispered, "it's fine".

Kelly nodded.

"Do… do you want me to find Robin?"

No," Simon said quickly.

"OK, just wait here," Kelly repeated and disappeared into a room, returning a moment later. "It's free," she said.

Simon felt as though he was in a nightmare as she led him into the room which looked more like a lounge than anything. He barely registered what was happening as he sat down and turned down various offers of drinks, both hot and cold, from Kelly.

Eventually she asked him the question he'd been trying to prepare for.

"Can you talk me through what happened last night, Simon?"

Simon wasn't really sure.

"Who… who took me home last night?" he asked quietly.

"Pardon?"

"When I came here last night, looking for Robin," Simon's hands shook, "who took me home? You have to find out because he's the guy… he's the one who did this."

Deep down, Simon was still hoping that the flashes of Keats' face were just hallucinations and in reality it was some stranger who had picked him up.

"Are… are you sure?" Kelly asked incredulously.

"Yes," Simon nodded.

"It's just, you were…" she tried to find a tactful way to say it, "you weren't exactly a picture of sobriety… I was here, I saw you."

"I still know what happened," Simon said firmly.

"But couldn't you be mistaken about who… who did this to you?" Kelly asked, "couldn't someone else have… I don't know… met you later?"

"No, it was the same guy," Simon said through gritted teeth.

Kelly swallowed.

"He said he worked under your super," she said quietly, "I thought you'd know him. He's a DCI… I've seen him around a bit lately."

"There was no one else involved," Simon said firmly.

Kelly nodded.

"Alright," she said, "well, why don't you… tell me what happened and we'll work from there."

Simon took a deep breath. He could barely bring himself to place all the snatches of memory into any kind of order.

"Yesterday I had a couple of drinks," he began, "I admit that. And I'm not used to alcohol so it kind of affected me a bit too much. I was upset… a friend died."

Kelly looked at him sadly.

"Oh, Sir, I am sorry," she said quietly.

"Robin was late coming home… he left me a message about some call he'd been caught up with. I was dumb, I started getting upset and I needed company so I came to find him." He flinched as he skipped over the disjointed voice on the line the night before, Alex's cries for help still haunting him. "I remember stumbling in the station and someone saying they were going to take me home. He said he knew where Robin lived. I didn't even question it." He began to feel nausea rising in his body again. "He played bloody George Michael songs all the way back, just kept whining on and on about it not being like the old days and how much he missed Andrew Ridgeley! By the time we got back to Robin's I wanted to shove cucumbers in my ears to block out the damn music."

"What happened when you got home?"

Simon stared at his feet.

"I don't… remember… unlocking the door," he whispered, "I don't remember even having the key. It was like he walked up to the door and it… just… _opened."_

"Are you saying he had a key?" Kelly asked.

Simon shook his head.

"The door just opened," he repeated, "no key went anywhere near the lock. Maybe I forgot to lock it."

"Then what?"

"I… don't remember seeing his face," Simon whispered, "he kept it turned away from me at all times. First he made me drink some water, then sent me to bed. I thought he was going to leave but the next thing I knew he'd followed me in and drew the curtains so the light wouldn't bother me. I… wasn't feeling great by now."

Kelly nodded slowly.

"What happened next?"

Simon began to relive a few more of the moments and sensations that he'd experienced the night before.

"I still couldn't see his features properly," he stared at his hands, "the darkness and the alcohol saw to that. That's when he insisted on making me the coffee… the bitter, black coffee." He gave a bitter laugh, "except it didn't sober me up. In fact, I started to feel… woozier." He rubbed his temples, the memory prompting the same effect. "One moment he's asking me questions about Robin and how long we've known each other, the next he's telling me I need someone to hold my hand and that Robin would be ashamed to see me in such a state. The next thing I knew…" he trailed off and saw Kelly's expression turn to one of expectant sympathy, "I… started to lose consciousness and the last thing I remember was his face leaning over me, his evil, smug smile waiting for my eyes to close."

Kelly swallowed. Seeing a colleague, even one she barely knew, in such a state truly upset her.

"Do you remember anything else?" she asked quietly.

Simon shook his head.

"Not until I woke up this morning," he said, "the bastard was nowhere to be found." He began to clench his fists together so hard that his nails burrowed into his skin. "Neither were my clothes. Between sitting in bed, drinking a black coffee and waking up this morning my clothes had been… removed," he found it harder to speak now, "I don't know what happened between times but Robin… believes I was unfaithful."

"I'm… so sorry to ask you this, Sir," Kelly began, "but do you believe this man sexually assaulted you?"

Simon threw his hands in the air.

"I wish I knew," he sighed, "I have no idea what happened after everything went black. There was a," he choked, "a condom wrapper by the bed, but no sign of the…" he trailed off. He wasn't comfortable thinking any more deeply into this just yet so he pulled his bag onto his lap and opened it. "I've collected evidence," he whispered. He placed a plastic bag on the table. "Two tea spoons, covered with a powdery substance. I believe he used them to crush something and slip into my drink." He pulled a thermos out and sat beside it. "the other half of my second black coffee." Finally he reached into the bag one more time and pulled out another bag with the most telling evidence of all. "And these spectacles."

Kelly breathed deeply for a moment, wishing there was something she could say. Finally she just nodded slowly.

"Simon," she began quietly, "are you prepared to undergo an examination?"

Simon hesitated, then nodded slowly.

"If you can tell me one thing," he whispered.

"Of course."

"Who took me home last night?"

Kelly sighed quietly.

"We're not really used to seeing him around here very much," she said apologetically, "He… he works closer to you than to us. I think he has something to do with handling the psychological evaluations of staff."

"What's his name?" Simon insisted. He needed to hear it. He needed to know for sure.

"I can't remember exactly," Kelly tried to recall the information Simon needed, "DCI Keen? Keel?"

Simon swallowed.

"Keats?" he whispered.

The name brought clarity to Kelly's memory.

"Yes," she whispered, "that sounds familiar."

Simon drew in a very deep breath, then exhaled slowly. His mind was racing and nausea rose inside of him again.

"Can we get on with examination now please?" he asked quietly.

Kelly bit her lip and nodded slowly.

"We'll head to the examination room and wait for the doctor," she told him.

Simon collected up his evidence and got to his feet slowly, allowing the young officer to extend a friendly arm around his back and lead him out of the room.

As they progressed slowly down the corridor he kept his eyes low, not wanting to meet the stares of anyone who happened to walk past. All he caught were snatches of feet of others who were passing by, until a shocked voice called his name.

"_Simon?"_

Out of habit, Simon glanced up. He knew who the voice belonged to, and it wasn't someone he wanted to see right then. One glance brought Robin into view, dark circles around his eyes from the sleepless night he'd had and his mouth wide open in shock.

Simon turned his eyes away as fast as he could. He wasn't ready for this conversation yet. He turned his gaze back to the floor and left Robin to stare in horror as Kelly led him gently through the door marked "Examination Room 1A".


	13. Chapter 13: With Nothing Much at Stake

**Chapter 13**

Robin paced up and down the corridor for so long that he thought for sure he'd worn a genuine hole in the carpet. It reminded him of an expectant father on TV awaiting news of his newborn child or the anxious family member waiting to hear if his dearly beloved relative had pulled through a complicated operation.

A thousand different possibilities ran through his mind as he stared at the door of the examination room; that Simon was there for a CID case, that he was speaking to someone about some poor victim he'd been handed the case file of earlier that morning, that he'd lapsed back into concussion and wandered to the wrong department.

None of them explained his pale pallor, sunken eyes, tear-streaked cheeks or the comforting arm Kelly had around him.

"_Shit," _Robin muttered, his pacing intensifying until the door opened slowly, calling him to a halt as his eyes turned hurriedly to the door. _"Simon?"_

"No, Rob, just me," Kelly emerged from the other side of the door.

Robin gave a sigh of frustration and slammed his head and shoulders against the wall behind him.

"Kelly, tell me what the hell is going on," he demanded.

Kelly chewed on her lip nervously.

"I don't know if I can do that," she said quietly, "confidentiality…"

"I work here!" cried Robin, "I walk down this corridor about once a day at least. What's confidential?"

Kelly looked a little anxious.

"Simon's your boyfriend," she said quietly, Or… or well, he was until you came into work this morning and told us all where you were going to stick his iPhone."

Robin stepped forward.

"Please, Kel?" he urged, tell me, what's he doing here? Please tell me he's just on a case… he is just on a case, right?"

Kelly couldn't meet Robin's gaze.

"I think maybe we should go elsewhere for a while," she said quietly, "I'll buy you a coffee in the cafeteria."

"I don't want a coffee, I wan t to know what's going on here," Robin could feel his eyes filling up involuntarily.

"I don't feel comfortable here," Kelly shuffled, "I'm still an officer… it's my job to protect the identity of victims."

In that instant, Robin's heart sank.

"Victims," he whispered. He looked at Kelly again. "Is… is that what Simon is?"

Kelly closed his eyes for a moment.

"I didn't say that," she cursed her slip-up silently.

"You didn't need to," Robin whispered. He paused. "What happened? Did… something happen on his way to work?" He was greeted by a silent stare. "Kelly, come on, help me out here."

Kelly shook her head slowly.

"No," she whispered, "it was before that. I don't think you saw what you thought you saw."

Robin bit his lip.

"I saw them…. _spooning_," he spat, "that's not assault!"

Kelly urged Robin to keep his voice down with an urgent shush and a flapping of her arms.

"Walls aren't that thick, you know!" she hissed.

"I don't understand what's supposed to be happening here!" Robin cried.

Kelly held up a bag; the bag that contained Simon's evidence.

"Hopefully these will fill in some of the gaps," she said quietly.

"What's in there?" Robin frowned.

"I can't really say," Kelly shuffled, wishing she had an escape route.

"Please, Kelly, I'm going crazy here."

Kelly took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.

"Possible evidence of the use of tranquilisers," she began, "or some form of date-rape drug."

Robin swallowed hard.

"Date rape drug?" he repeated.

"Please, Robin," Kelly shook her head slowly, "come with me and we'll get this logged, and then see if Simon is ready."

"I'm not leaving this corridor," Robin stood firm, "not until I've spoken to Simon."

Kelly took his arm and tried to pull him along.

"Come on," she urged, "Simon's going to be a while yet. When Doctor Linton has performed the examination…"

"Examination?" Robin repeated, his heart thumping with fear.

Kelly nodded slowly.

"What else would he be going in the examination room for?" she said quietly.

Robin pressed his hands to his forehead and leaned back against the wall.

"_Fuck,"_ he cursed.

A suited man marched down the corridor towards them and stopped beside Kelly.

"I hear you have DCI Shoebury in the examination room," he said as a half-question/half-statement.

Kelly looked a little taken aback.

"Uh, y-yes Sir," she said.

"Due to his standing in this station this case has become a CID matter," the man told her, "please hand me the notes, recording and evidence."

"Well, I haven't taken a formal statement yet," Kelly flustered.

"No matter, we need to take what you have," the man told her.

"I only have this," Kelly held the bag up a little.

"Fine, I'll take this and log it," said the man.

"Wh-wait, I don't even know who you are," Kelly frowned, "where have the orders come from?"

"From my DCI," the man told her.

"Who is?"

"Getting angrier by the moment with the jumped up little desk sergeant who is obstructing his DI in the course of duty!" the man told her crossly, "bag, please."

Shaken, Kelly did as she was told and handed the bag over. She felt nervous as she watched the man walk away. She glanced at Robin for back-up but his mind was elsewhere, staring at the door desperately hoping that Simon was going to emerge from within. With a sigh she decided to follow the stranger, hoping to get a few more answers.

Robin glanced after her as she left the corridor, then his eyes darted back to the door. With all the kafuffle he noticed she had forgotten to slip the 'engaged' notice across on the door. Cautiously looking from side to side he saw the coast was clear and opened the door.

"Well, there was nothing on the door…" he reasoned with himself.

He didn't know what kind of state he would find Simon in, nor what kind of answers he was going to give but he needed to find out what was going on one way or the other. He wasn't completely sure he was ready for the answer but it had to be better than not knowing - whatever it would turn out to be.


	14. Chapter 14: Long as you're Still Smiling

**Chapter 14**

Simon felt seven shades of humiliation flush over his cheeks as he shuffled off the examination table in what resembled a surgical gown.

"You can go behind the screen and put your clothes back on while I go and clean up," the doctor told him, handing him his clothing.

"Thanks," Simon mumbled, slinking away and feeling like an idiot for throwing up on the doctor's shoes when he spotted the large needle the police surgeon was about to use to remove several phials of blood for testing. He slipped behind the curtain and started to pull on his underpants when he heard the door opening and assumed Kelly had returned. "Kelly? Is that you?"

"Not unless I've had a sex change without being consulted about it," a familiar but sheepish voice came from the other side of the curtain.

Simon froze. It surely couldn't be. To his dismay the corner of the curtain moved and Robin peered around.

"Robin!" he cried in alarm, "you can't come in here!"

"There's nothing I haven't seen before," Robin pointed out.

Simon realised at that moment that he still had one leg in the air, pulling on his underpants, and toppled over. After righting himself and hurriedly pulling on his underwear he backed away a little as Robin stepped behind the curtain.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed.

Robin hesitated.

"Is it true?" he asked eventually.

"Is _what_ true?"

"Kelly said you… were reporting… a crime," Robin began as sensitively as he could.

Simon looked down. He couldn't bring himself to meet Robin's stare.

"I think you'd better leave, Rob," he said, "I've already heard where you're planning to put my iPhone, and I've already have a variety of medical instruments up there this morning so I'm not in the mood for anything additional."

Robin could feel his cheeks flush. He still didn't know what the truth was behind what he had seen the previous night but he was beginning to see that something was very wrong with his approximation of the situation.

"No iPhones," he promised, "I… might have said a few things I didn't mean when I got to work this morning." he paused and watched as Simon continued to dress in silence. "So are you going to tell me what really happened or am I going to have to read the report to find out?"

Simon pulled up his trousers and took his time fastening the belt. Eventually, not even glancing at Robin, he said,

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"At who?"

"When you came back last night and thought I was being unfaithful," Simon's voice wavered, "did you see what he looked like?"

Robin scratched his head.

"It was kind of dark," he said, "the curtains were closed and he…. He had his back to the door. I only saw the back of his head." he swallowed to keep bile from rising in his throat. "And his arm around you."

For the briefest moment Simon glanced at Robin with hurt in his bloodshot eyes.

"And then what did you do?" he asked.

Robin shuffled a little and scuffed his foot on the ground.

"I yelled at you but neither of you woke up," he whispered, "so I went to the kitchen and found you'd managed to down more alcohol in a day than you had in your life. I wrote you a note and left. I didn't want to be in the same flat. I stayed at Graham's."

"Graham?" Simon repeated. Robin nodded. "_'Come-and-look-at-my-ice-cream-scoop-collection' _Graham?"

"I had no where else to go," Robin sniffed. He watched as Simon slowly pulled on his shirt and buttoned it. "So what did I get wrong?" he whispered, "What really happened?"

Simon glanced at Robin.

"I've just been through this twice," he whispered, "please don't make me go through it again."

Robin let forth an involuntary sob which caught Simon by surprise.

"Please?" he begged, "I'm so worried about you, Si. This is worse than when you were in a coma… at least this time you can _tell_ me what's happened… it's the fact that you _won't_ that's killing me inside."

"It can't be killing you any more than the way it made me feel when I tried to call you and I found out you'd broadcast your plans for my iPhone around the station," hissed Simon.

"_Please?"_

Simon took a deep breath an let it out slowly. He could feel nausea rising inside his chest again as he thought about the night before.

"It's Keats," he whispered.

Robin hesitated.

"Keats?"

"Jim Keats."

"The… eighties guy?" Robin repeated, "the one you kept seeing in your cereal or on the TV?"

"Please don't ask me to explain how this is possible, because I do not know," Simon said quietly, "I came to find you yesterday when you didn't come home and left me a message about getting caught up at work. I wasn't in a good way and I needed you. I'd had a bit too much to drink and I don't think I behaved very well when I arrived…"

Robin bristled just a little.

"Yes, I _have_ seen the CCTV footage," he admitted.

Simon looked at him seriously.

"You saw the footage?" he repeated.

"They're going to show it in the CCTV blooper reel at the Christmas party," Robin said a little angrily.

Simon couldn't care less.

"The guy," he cried, "did you see the guy? The one that took me home?"

"Well, yeah… I guess," Robin tried to think back.

"Describe him," Simon urged, "Please?"

"I didn't really take that much in," Robin said crossly, "I was too busy thinking my boyfriend had cheated on me in my own bed!"

"Please," Simon repeated, "it's very important."

Robin took a deep breath and shrugged.

"Couldn't see that well, it was only CCTV," he began, "Dark hair… glasses… long, dark coat."

Simon couldn't help tears returning to his eyes.

"I need your help," he whispered.

"What do you need me to do?" Robin asked quietly.

"I need that tape," Simon told him, "I need to see for myself. See with my own eyes. I need to be sure."

"I would think CID have the tape by now," said Robin.

Simon froze.

"Why would CID have the tape?"

"A DI came down for all the notes about your case," Robin told him, "because of your position in the station it's become a CID matter."

Simon closed his eyes and fell back against the wall.

"_Shit,"_ he cursed.

Robin bit his lip nervously.

"Shit?" he repeated.

Simon looked at him seriously.

"Fastest cover up in history is now in progress," he said quietly.

Robin hesitated. He thought the incident that occurred outside the room was pretty unusual but was too busy worrying about Simon at the time. He bit his lip nervously.

"Oh, God, Si," he whispered, "I…I think someone just took your evidence. He asked Kelly to give him the bag."

Simon took a deep breath.

"And she did?" he asked.

Robin nodded slowly.

"She didn't seem to have a lot of choice," he whispered.

Simon nodded slowly.

"In that case," he whispered, "it's a good thing I anticipated Keats's response and kept back a sample."

He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small bottle filled with dark liquid.

"I… hope that's not a urine sample," Robin contemplated.

Simon gagged.

"No!" he cried, "it's coffee." he cast his eyes downward. "Bastard made me black coffees to sober me up and added his own special ingredient." he slipped the bottle into Robin's hand. "You have to look after this for me," he urged, "get it to the lab. I need to know what he did to me."

Robin closed his hand around the bottle and nodded, fighting back tears. He slipped it into his pocked and looked seriously at Simon.

"I'm so, so sorry, Simon," he whispered.

Simon couldn't quite bring himself to reply. He couldn't quite forgive Robin for assuming the worst, even with all the circumstantial evidence. He'd thought their relationship was stronger than that.

Before either of them could say anything more, footsteps approached and the doctor's voice began;

"You can come out now, DCI Shoebury. I'm sorry I took so long. Who'd have thought leather would be so hard to clean of vomit?"

Simon cringed and avoided Robin's gaze, not wishing to have to answer any potential questions about how the aforementioned vomit had found its way onto the doctor's shoes. Instead, he peeled back the curtain, revealing both himself and Robin to a surprised doctor. Robin raised a hand in nervous greeting.

"Hi," he smiled amiably.

The doctor took a step back.

"A… a person appears to have materialised beside you," he addressed Simon nervously.

Simon sighed.

"This is Robin," he began, "he's my…. Friend."

Robin turned to Simon with a hurt expression.

"Am I just a friend now?" he whispered.

Simon looked down at his shoes.

"Well, according to your note we're certainly nothing more," he whispered.

Robin's heart sank. It was becoming clear that it would take a little time for them both to forgive and forget.

"I'm so, so sorry," he whispered again.

The doctor looked at Simon.

"DCI Shoebury, would you prefer some privacy while I talk you through the results of your examination?"

Simon hesitated. He wasn't altogether sure himself, but Robin answered the question by simply reaching out and taking his hand.

"No," he said quietly, "I… I'd like Robin to stay."

The doctor nodded.

"Very well," he said, He looked seriously at Simon. "I can find no wounds, abrasions or bruises," he began, "nothing to suggest any kind of rough treatment or a struggle. But more importantly I can find no signs that you were sexually assaulted."

Simon let out a breath he didn't even realise he'd been holding.

"W-what? Honestly? Are you serious?"

"There is no sign that you have had sexual intercourse within the last twenty four hours, consensual or otherwise," the doctor told him honestly.

For a moment Simon forgot to breathe. Then he felt someone squeezing his hand and he heard his own voice crying, _"Oh thank GOD!"_ over and over.

He remembered little of the moments that followed, not the arms that flew around his shoulders from a relieved Robin, nor the words from the doctor telling him when the results of his blood tests would be back. All he could think about was that Keats hadn't gone to the extreme that he had feared - and felt sure he'd have been capable of if he'd wanted to.

The condom wrapper, the nudity, the pair of them entwined in bed had all been part of a vile, terrible game meant to split Simon from his rock. It had very nearly worked.

What Simon still had to work out was why, how… what the hell he was supposed to do now.


	15. Chapter 15: There's Nothing More I Need

_Sorry for such a long gap between updates. When this chapter was half finished my laptop broke down, then shortly after I had my baby boy so writing hasn__'t been practical in a long time! But now I'm back! I finally got this chapter off my old laptop and the next chapter will be up later too -x-_

**Chapter 15**

As Simon and Robin stepped out of the examination room together the dynamic had changed beyond belief. Suddenly Robin was the one apologising and Simon was the one who couldn't shake the hurt of Robin's assumptions, as convincing as Keats's set-up had been.

"How are you feeling?" Robin asked quietly.

Simon took a deep breath and stared straight ahead.

"Relieved," he said as he exhaled, "vindicated." He turned to Robin. "hurt."

Robin closed his eyes for a moment.

"Put yourself in my position," he began, "what would _you_ have thought?"

Simon shook his head slowly.

"I don't know," he replied honestly.

"I walked into our bedroom and saw you in bed with another man," Robin said quietly, "I was upset, angry and just wanted to get out of there." he paused and tried to make Simon look into his eyes. "But I will make this up to you," he promised, "whatever it takes, I'll make you see how much you mean to me."

Simon swallowed.

"You can start by getting my coffee to the lab," be said, "I don't suppose my blood samples are ever going to make it that far."

"I could take some blood for you," Robin offered.

"Ugh, are you a vampire now?" Simon frowned.

"I had a … very short-lived ambition to become a doctor," Robin confessed, "only thing I learned was how to draw blood." He looked at Simon proudly. "I practiced on an orange!"

Simon blanched.

"It's… very kind of you," he began, "but I think we'll stick with the coffee for now."

They began to walk down the corridor, two sets of eyes peering nervously around.

"So what happens now?" asked Robin.

Simon wished he knew.

"I guess I have no job," he said quietly, "the Super's gone crazy because I missed a meeting, and that's to say nothing about the CCTV tape and whatever Keats is doing with my good name."

"When we get the lab results we'll be able to charge this guy though," Robin tried to assure him but Simon gave a bitter laugh.

"You don't know this man," he began,. "he's slippery. He can turn anything around. He gets his own way no matter what. Nothing sticks to him. If we try to hold him accountable for what he's done either we _both_ lose our jobs or…"

Robin looked at him nervously.

"Or what?"

Simon swallowed.

"We lose our lives," he said.

As they turned a corner the sight of what at first seemed to be an abandoned pile of clothes greeted them down the far end of the corridor, but as they looked more closely and continued to walk it became clear that there was a person wearing them, in a heap on the floor.

"My god, _Kelly!"_ Robin cried, picking up his pace and running towards her motionless body.

"Oh shit," Simon cursed, hot on his heels.

They stopped beside her and Robin felt for a pulse.

"She's not dead," he said, "just unconscious."

Simon glanced at him.

"Did you practice that on an orange as well?" he asked. He could feel his heart rate increasing, panic rising through his body. "Shit, we've got to get her to hospital. What the hell's happened to her?"

"No sign of any blood…" said Robin. He turned her over gently and saw a little seeping from a wound hidden beneath her hair. "…I spoke too soon." He swallowed. "Who'd _do_ this?"

Simon closed his eyes for a moment.

"One guess," he said.

Robin looked at him with fear in his eyes.

"_Shit, _Si," he whispered, "where's he going to stop? He already had the samples. Why'd he have to do this to her as well?"

"He's taking out anyone and anything in his way from destroying me," Simon whispered.

Robin froze.

"Who's next?" he asked.

Simon felt a lump rising in his throat. They both strongly suspected they knew the answer to that. Despite the anger and hurt he still felt towards Robin for doubting his fidelity he couldn't stand the thought of anything happening to the man he loved. Glancing around, he caught sight of the CCTV camera trained on them.

"Fight with me," he hissed.

"What?"

"Just _do_ it," Simon insisted, "and make it look good. Get Kelly to hospital and the coffee to the lab. Meet me back at the flat in an hour." Barely pausing for breath, he got to his feet and gestured angrily at Robin. "This is all your fault!"

Robin didn't follow what Simon was talking about. He wasn't even sure this allegation was part of his request for an argument, but had no choice but to go along with it.

"Me?" he threw his palms open innocently, "I'm not the one who…. Got into bed with… someone."

Simon flinched. His request for a fake argument was backfiring on him.

"You never bloody trust me!" he moved his arms dramatically and began to back away, pointing a finger repeatedly at Robin. "We're over, Robin!"

"Well… good riddance!" Robin realised he would never make a good improvisational comedian, "Get_….lost!"_

"OK, I will!" yelled Simon, and he turned his back to the scene. He swallowed and found his feet taking him faster and faster away from Robin and the motionless Kelly. He hoped that she would be OK and hoped that Robin would get that coffee to the lab before anyone attempted to intercept him, but most of all he hoped that he would make it home in one piece. Life held more fear now for Simon than it ever had before - even in 1985.


	16. Chapter 16: I Absolutely Love You

**Chapter 16**

Simon turned the key in the lock and stepped inside. Just a couple of hours ago he'd left that same doorway with deep fear and terror in his heart. He had some answers now but knew the fear wasn't going to go away easily.

As he closed the door he leaned back heavily against it, letting out his breath so deeply that he gave an involuntary sigh. For a brief moment his eyes closed, the silence of the empty flat surrounding him, enveloping him in time to go over all that he'd been though in his mind.

Slowly, as though on auto-pilot his feet took him down the corridor and to the bathroom. He closed the door and walked to the shower cubicle where he switched on the water and waited for a moment until it ran hot and filled the room with steam, then he shed his clothes and stepped inside.

As the hot water hit his body and the deafening sound of the power shower filled his ears he let his eyelids close and began to breathe deeply. The events of the last 24 hours were causing goosebumps on his skin, despite the temperature of the water. He stepped forward and let his face come into direct line of the shower and stood with closed eyes, water beating against him, wishing that it could wash away the memories of Keats and his insane actions. He wished that the water could wash away the deep feeling of dread, the darkness that crushed his chest at every breath.

He reached for the shampoo and squeezed a huge amount into his hand then began working it through is hair roughly. He began to rub harder and harder until the massaging of the foam became a real gouging at his skin instead. He wasn't even fully aware of what he was doing, just desperately hoping he would feel better if he could scrub a little of the memory away.

He let the water wash away the foam but the darkness remained inside of him. Taking the soap he began to rub it roughly on his skin, washing every inch of his body over and over. He felt dirty, tainted, ruined by one man who was intent on destroying his life.

As he washed for the forth time something began to crumble inside of him and tears fell from his eyes. A deep and cleansing cry followed, as he sank to the ground and cried unashamedly. There was no one around to see. He could finally let out some of the emotions that had been building as the day went on.

He wasn't aware how much time had passed but eventually felt the water run cold as the hot water had been exhausted. As he reached out to turn off the shower and let his tears dry up with it, so he began to feel his fears and anguish turning to anger. Anger at Keats for what he had put him through, anger at Robin for doubting him and labelling him a cheater, anger at the experience if being in 1985 which had left him in such a horrific situation but mostly anger at himself. He was angry for allowing himself to get into such a situation in the first place, angry for failing to protect himself from Keats and angry for letting the bastard reduce him to tears.

He stepped out of the shower and dried himself roughly with a towel, throwing on some clean clothes and trying to rub most of the water from his head. The natural wave in his hair was starting to look a little frizzy but the last thing on his mind was blow-drying.

With renewed determination he strode to the lounge, picked up his laptop and took it to the kitchen where he placed it on the table. He took a deep breath to gather his energy and opened the lid. Just as he switched it on, the sound of a key in the lock caught his attention and he looked up in time to see Robin stepping sheepishly through the front door.

"Hi," he said quietly.

Simon swallowed. Without intending to, he found himself becoming defensive.

"Hi," he said coldly.

"No one tried anything," Robin began quietly, "I guess your fake fight worked."

Simon nodded.

"I'm glad."

"I wasn't very good at faking," Robin confessed, "I'm surprised they fell for it."

"You did fine," Simon looked away.

"Kelly's regained consciousness," Robin told him.

Simon nodded slowly.

"That's good," he said quietly.

Robin hesitated for a moment, then began to walk slowly towards him.

"The sample is at the lab," he said.

Simon stared at him.

"Thank you," his voice wavered just a little.

"They said they'll call me when they have some results," he said.

Simon couldn't bring himself to look at Robin any longer. The anger was biting too hard.

"OK," he said quietly, glancing down as his laptop finished loading.

Robin stopped at the table and sat down beside him.

"Simon?" he began quietly, "Are we OK?"

Simon clicked a couple of times on his laptop.

"_I'm _not," he said quietly.

"I mean…. Are 'we' OK?" Robin repeated.

Simon closed his eyes just for a second.

"I know," he whispered.

Robin flinched inside. He knew that Simon would be angry with him for jumping to the wrong conclusion, but, really - how else was he supposed to react? He waited for a second, trying to work out what to say. In the end he decided to change the subject.

"Simon… who _is_ this guy?" he asked, not even sure he wanted to know the answer, "and what does he want with you?"

"I don't know what he wants with me," Simon said quietly, "and I'm hoping to find out the other part of your question shortly."

"Why did he go to so much trouble to set you up?" Robin asked, "if he hates you so much why didn't he just kill you?"

Simon shook his head slowly.

"Because the guy is insane," he said quietly, "that's the only answer I can think of. Nothing else makes sense."

Robin chewed nervously on his lip.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm going into the database," Simon told him, "This Keats guy hasn't just… appeared from nowhere. I'm going to find out where he's come from and what the hell he thinks he's doing."

Robin felt nauseous as Simon's stiff, cold tone brought home to him just how much of a hit their relationship had taken. He didn't know whether to confront it right then or to let it go in the name of peace. Finally the words made his decision for him, escaping from his head, right out through his mouth before he could stop them.

"You would have thought the same, you know!" he blurted, "If you'd come home and found me in bed with someone else, there's no way you would have reacted any differently. What else was I supposed to think? You'd have thought I'd cheated too."

Simon gave him a glance as his fingers danced across the keyboard.

"Yeah, OK," he said quietly, "Maybe I would."

"Then why are you so angry with me?"

Simon swallowed, a lump threatening to rise in his throat.

"Because you know me," he said quietly, "and you know how I feel about infidelity."

"Even so, you've been acting so strangely lately," Robin tried to explain, "doing things that were so out of character…"

Simon locked Robin in firm eye contact.

"But," he repeated, "you _know_ me."

Robin glanced down.

"Yeah."

"And to think that you believe I'm that kind of person…." Simon blinked slowly, "that hurts."

Robin opened his mouth to respond but suddenly all his arguments seemed futile. He could have mentioned the drinking, the circumstantial evidence, even the accident but none of them felt like they justified his behaviour. Eventually he took a deep breath.

"I know," he said, "and I am sorry… but I'll make it up to you, I promise you that."

Simon knew that Robin was sincere but his anger was still too strong to accept his apology just yet. Instead he focused on the screen in front of him and typed his access details into the station's database.

"Come on…" he muttered as the machine seemed to be taking an extremely long time to let him in, then after a bleep emerged he swore profusely.

"What's wrong?" asked Robin.

"The bastards have blocked my access!" Simon cried, "they must have suspended my account!" he thumped his fists onto the keyboard, _"Bastards!"_

Robin scooted his chair a little closer and glanced at the screen which now bore a line of Ks and As from where Simon's fists had made contact. Deleting the repeated letters, he started to type before Simon could say anything.

"What are you doing?"

"Logging in on my account," said Robin.

The computer gave a satisfying tone as access was granted and the station's database opened up to them. Simon gave him a tiny smile and a sideways glance.

"Thanks," he said quietly. He clicked on a couple of buttons to get into the part of the system he desired, mumbled "Let's find out who the hell you are," and then began to fill in the required fields.

Surname: KEATS. Initial: J.

He ran the curser across the screen to the 'search' button and hovered above it. As the curser hung in the air, so his finger hovered over the button. He froze as though someone had pressed the pause button and left him hanging in suspended animation. The only sound he made was a gulp as he swallowed hard and caused Robin to look at him in concern.

"Si?" he asked. When Simon didn't respond he tried again. "Simon?" he reached out to touch his hand but Simon flinched and drew back a little. He gave a nervous, false laugh and rubbed his chin.

"I, uh…" he flustered, "I just wasn't…. I just started to wonder…. If I was doing the right thing."

Robin frowned.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Simon began to tremble visibly.

"If I press the button," he whispered, "then I'll know if he's real. I'll know if it's _all_ real."

"Simon…"

"And it's scary, Robin. It really…. _really_… scares the shit out of me."

Robin hesitated.

"Si… you already know it's real," he said quietly. It was a hard thing for Robin to say, still hoping deep down that Robin's time in 1985 had been some kind of dream. It wasn't that he thought Simon would lie or could be delusional in some way, it was more his own fear that something so outlandish could be real, let alone coming to haunt the man he loved in the present day. "You already found Malcolm… Keats is just another name. Another part of an experience that you have never been able to put behind you, for one very important reason." He looked Simon in the eye. "Because you knew it was real."

Simon bit his lip. That was true enough. But even so, finding out that the darkness of Jim Keats was real was a possibility that terrified him.

"I know," he whispered, "but…"

"But nothing," Robin reached out, "you need to find out who this guy is. You owe it to yourself." He placed his hand gently over Simon's. To his surprise, Simon didn't flinch this time. "You owe it to both of us."

Simon tried to take a deep breath but every one he took seemed so shallow. He felt as though he just couldn't get enough oxygen around his body.

"I wish I could," he whispered.

Robin nodded slowly.

"We'll both do it," he said quietly. Slowly he exerted pressure on Simon's finger and the key depressed. The search button activated and the screen came alive with information. Now the genie had been let out of the lamp there was no way of putting him back in - they had no choice but to find out exactly who shared a body with the devil. The words on the screen began to shake them to the core.


	17. Chapter 17: But We're Absolute Beginners

**Chapter 17**

"This guy spent four years in a coma," Simon breathed as he read through Keats' rough history, "a result of injuries sustained when he was in uniform. A raid gone wrong. There's an investigation on file into his superiors for their misjudged actions and failure to follow official protocols." he swallowed, "no wonder the Keats I met in eighty five was so hung up over complaints and following the book to the letter - even when that involved setting someone up first."

"Four _years?"_ Robin repeated, "how did he ever recover from that?"

"There's a lot of detail I can't access here," Simon grumbled, "classified files, but it looks like he was in an ongoing program of rehabilitation for half a decade. Learning to walk and talk again… he eventually went back to work. Not on the beat… desk jobs. Worked his way up."

"Or sideways," Robin nodded at the screen, "look at the number of posts he's been in. Not all of them have been a step up the ladder either."

"All these transfers," Simon shook his head, "how can one man work so may jobs over such a short period of time?"

"It's like they couldn't find the right job for him," commented Robin.

"You're not kidding," said Simon, "look… look at these codes here," he pointed to the screen, "these are disciplinary cases brought against him leading to his 'transfer' from some of these jobs…"

"Disciplinary? " Robin repeated, "can we get access?"

Simon tried.

"Nope," he sighed, "looks like these are only available to some pretty high ranking personnel."

Robin stood up and left the kitchen, mumbling

"We'll see about that."

Simon frowned.

"Where are you going?" he called.

Almost as quickly as he left, Robin returned with his own laptop.

"I'm going to see what Detective Inspector Google has to say about it," he explained as he opened the lid.

Simon scratched his drying hair roughly, feeling it slipping into the lose curls he'd spent his life trying to hide. It was probably time for a haircut, he decided. It had taken a while to grow back at all after the accident - now he was feeling positively overgrown.

"This file is nuts," he shook his head, "this has got to be a mistake."

"What has?" asked Robin as his laptop sprung into life.

"Keats has been in his current post for just a few weeks but before that he was in the same job for three years," Simon's voice trembled just a little, "it's the longest amount of time he's spent in one place.

"What was he doing?" asked Robin, "and what's he doing now?"

"Now? He's recently transferred to Fenchurch East on his own request," Simon's tongue ran across his lips nervously, "to localise his previous post."

"What do you mean?"

"Until a few weeks ago," Simon could hardly talk, "Keats was the guy who signed off every psychological assessment of _any_ member of the Police force across the UK."

Robin practically choked on thin air.

"He _what?"_

"Any time someone was sent for a professional or personal psychological assessment," Simon continued shakily, "the report from their session was sent to Keats."

"Keats is charge of mentally assessing every officer?"

"Only signing the papers," Simon corrected, "the professionals make the assessments and the recommendations, then Keats makes their decision official. He receives copies of notes from assessments, therapy, counselling…" he trailed off and locked his gaze on Robin's. "Shit, Rob, that counsellor - the one you made me see…"

Robin felt a wave of nausea rise inside of him.

"She wouldn't…. she _couldn't…_" he faltered, "what about patient confidentiality?"

"This is a professional step in the rehabilitation of patients who have been on long term sick leave, too," Simon cried, "look - it's all down here. Keats has been receiving reports about the mental health of every officer in the UK - and now, mysteriously, he's decided to locate his efforts at Fenchurch to oversee the mental health of the station."

Robin chewed nervously on the fingernails of his left hand as he hit a few keys on his laptop with the right.

"Fuck, Si," he breathed, "this insane. How did this even _happen?" _he hesitated. "Double-E or E-A?"

"Sorry?"

"Keats…. Is it double E or E-A?"

"E-A," said Simon, "Why?"

"And his first name's James?"

"Well, calls himself Jim, but… yeah. Why? What have you found?"

Robin turned his screen very slightly and read aloud;

"One charge of GBH, three charges of phone tapping, Two charges of perverting the course of justice, one charge of entrapment…" he hesitated, "and one charge of manslaughter. All dropped."

"_What the…?"_

"These are all over the course of a few years," Robin scratched wildly at his head as though it could soothe some of the anxiety building inside of him, "nothing ever gets to court. You were right - he is damn slippery."

Simon couldn't handle the latest revelation.

"Manslaughter? GBH? What…. I mean, _how…?"_

"The manslaughter charge… nothing was proven, but the allegations were that he pushed someone off of a building."

Simon's eyes opened as wide as saucers.

"And the count of GBH?"

Robin clicked a couple of links on his laptop.

"A fight with another member of CID," he began, "each alleged that the other started the fight. In the end the other guy dropped the charges because…" his face fell and his complexion took on a dull, grey tinge. "Oh, _Si…"_

Simon bristled.

"What?" he whispered, "what is it?"

Robin tried to swallow but there was a lump in his throat the size of an ostrich egg.

"He dropped the charges," he continued, "because Keats had 'evidence' that the detective was having some… problems adjusting… after a serious accident left him in a coma for six weeks."

In that moment, the world stopped turning for Simon.

"Shit," he said again. He seemed to be using that one word more than any other, but it was the only one that seemed to give his emotions any kind of a voice. He looked at Robin with wide eyes. "You found all this out through Googling him?"

"It's all there in the public domain," Robin rubbed his temples, "it's all been in the news."

Simon threw his head into his hands and stared blankly at his own screen.

"The man is insane," he whispered, "he's insane, and he's after _me."_

Before Robin could make an attempt to come up with a soothing or reassuring comment the atmosphere was broken by the theme tune to _The Littlest Hobo_ emerging from Robin's pocket, causing a frown from Simon and a blush from Robin.

"Sorry," Robin apologised as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

Simon only half listened as he tried to process everything they had discovered. It was hard enough to see Keats as a flesh-and-blood person but now he'd read about his past he barely sounded human. Simon rubbed his forehead, a combination of the news and the events of the night before causing his head to thump. As he considered looking for some paracetamol he looked at Robin who was finishing his call.

"Who was that?" he asked quietly.

Robin slowly got to his feet and shuffled slightly.

"That was the lab," he said, "they've got some results back."

"Already?" Simon asked weakly.

"They want to tell me in person," Robin slipped his phone back into his pocket, "I'd… I'd better go and find out what the tests have shown up so far." he hesitated, "are you going to be OK here on your own?"

Simon shrugged.

"I'll be fine," he whispered.

Robin bit his lip again. It was a nervous habit. He hoped the whole thing would be over soon, otherwise he would probably end up with no lip left.

"I'm not happy about leaving you", he admitted, "not after what we've just found."

Simon shook his head slightly.

"Keats has already had his 'fun' with me," he said quietly, "I'm starting to think I've gotten off lightly."

Robin shuffled a little more and finally edged to the door.

"I've got my phone," he said, "if anything…. _anything_ happens at all…. Call me. Any sign of Keats, anything strange, a phone call, a text…"

"I get the point," Simon cut him off. He sighed a little. "I'll be fine, Rob," he said, "really."

Robin hesitated but knew there was little he could do. He needed to see what the lab had found and Simon was better off staying put.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised and quickly left the flat.

As the sound of the door closing let Simon know he was truly on his own he began to feel more nervous. He felt sure that Keats had already taken everything that he wanted to from Simon - his job, his relationship, his dignity - he didn't have much left to lose. But even so, there was still a pang of nervousness.

He stood up and started closing the lid of his laptop, but at the last moment he stopped and opened it back up. He stared at the database open in front of him with all of Keats' personal information. A little box popped up warning of his inactivity and asking if he wanted to remain connected. He was about to let the box time out and the database disconnect but something rose up inside him and took him over. Before he knew what he was doing he clicked 'Yes' and placed the curser into the search box.

Swallowing hard, he took his courage in both hands and let his fingers slowly type another name, a name that he'd been too afraid to search for until that moment. He was terrified of finding her in some ways - her friendship in 1985 had been the one bright light in a very dark and surreal experience. He didn't want to lose another friend. He didn't want to lay flowers on her grave. He didn't want to know what happened to her and how her life came to an end.

But h didn't want to live his life never knowing.

And so he typed;

_Surname: DRAKE Initial: A_

Search.

_Click._

A few moments later a page of information appeared with a photograph of the face that Simon could remember so clearly. He gave a sad smile and reached forward to touch the screen. As he ran his finger around the outline of the photograph something strange caught his eye. Although her date of birth was displayed on the page, there was no date of death alongside it. He frowned. He knew that was standard on the Fenchurch database when someone had lost their life. He'd seen it plenty of times before.

Taking a deep breath, his eyes scanned the page. It had to be a mistake - he remembered Alex telling him that she hadn't won her battle and had died. She was serious - he knew that much. She believed whole heartedly that she had died, but the screen was telling him something completely different.

He found his arms trembling as he scrolled down further. He reached the bottom of the screen and took a deep breath.

"_Two years… in a coma…" _he whispered as he took in the information, "in the…" he froze. "Shit!" his favourite word came forth again, "but that's the same hospital that I_… I…"_

He stumbled to his feet, his heart racing. Suddenly things began to make a little more sense to him - the strange pull he'd felt to a room close to the one he'd been in during his coma, meeting a teen who looked so familiar in the hospital canteen, the dreams and the voices.

"_She's alive…" _he ran his fingers through his hair. Now dry and fairly frizzy, it provided him with a focus while he tried to take on board what he'd discovered about Alex. "Fuck, she's _alive!"_ His expression hovered between joy and anxiety as he tried to work out what to do. He paced up and down the room, trying to work through his thoughts but his heart was fighting with his logic.

Finally he made his decision. He needed to see her. He had to see Alex for himself, to believe that she was really there, living and breathing despite her present state.

He grabbed his keys and went to leave the room but something held him back. He looked around and spotted an item that had once been so familiar to him, but that Keats and 1985 had distanced him from. With a deep breath, he grasped his iPhone and slipped it into his pocket.

"I'm taking it back. Keats," he said out loud, "I'm taking it _all_ back. You can't hurt me now."

With that, he left the flat feeling reinvigorated and determined. Just maybe a few more pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Maybe he could find a way out of this nightmare after all.


	18. Chapter 18: But If My Love is Your Love

**Chapter 18**

A shiver ran down the spine of Simon as he walked down a cold, quiet corridor.

_I was here,_ he thought silently, _this is where I spent my coma._

He clung to the small, half-dead bunch of flowers that he'd hastily bought from the hospital gift shop and breathed deeply. He came to a halt beside the door and felt his palms beginning to sweat. He hated hospitals with a passion. He was bad enough as a patient but he made an even worse visitor. As a patient there wasn't much he could do - he just had to put up with being there - but when he was visiting something else all he wanted to do was turn and scoot back out of the nearest exit.

He remembered going to A&E with Robin after an incident with a lawnmower and a pair of open-toed sandals and being so nervous that he dropped the grapes on the floor, slipped on them and ended up in the bed next door with a twisted ankle.

He gathered his thoughts, took a deep breath and reached for the door handle. Opening it slowly, the enormity of the moment grasped him. He was about to come face to face with someone he'd met in some whole other place, some whole other time. He didn't know where 1985 was - _an alternative reality, a parallel universe, some kind of time travel pit-stop, _but whatever it was he knew now it was real on some level. It was as tangible as the world he stood in right there and then.

_Now or never, _he decided.

One last, deep breath.

Best foot forward.

He took a couple of steps forward and peered around. In the sparse room there was a bed where various machines surrounded a still, motionless body. A couple of chairs sat beside it, while on a small cabinet stood some wilting flowers and a photograph or two.

Swallowing hard, Simon stepped closer to the bed and saw for the first time the figure laying within. He gasped involuntarily, taken aback by his own reaction to seeing the face of the woman he'd met more than two decades into the past.

"_God," _he whispered, stepping a little closer. He peered at Alex, noting how peaceful her expression looked; a far cry from the harrowed brow she'd worn in 1985 as she watched Keats setting up her beloved Gene. Simon felt a little out of place - did he even have the right to be there? However well they may have gotten on in the past, in this world they had never even met.

"Uh… hi, Alex," he began to speak, surprised at how quiet his tone was and how much his voice trembled. He gently slipped into a seat beside her and stared at her peaceful features. "It's me…. It's Simon. You might not even remember me… hell, I know I'm easily forgettable…" He gave a nervous laugh and cleared his throat. "I feel sort of silly, talking to you like this… But I remember how important it was to hear messages from home, and hope maybe you'll be able to hear me too."

The silence in the room seemed to make talking to her even more difficult. He glanced around and saw a small TV. He wondered what the chances of finding the remote were and putting on the end of Cash in the Attic or some such show, but it didn't seem appropriate. Reluctantly, he decided to deal with the silence and turned back to Alex.

"I thought you were dead," he said, "I mean… _you_ thought you were dead. You told me you were so you must have thought so… I was expecting to find a gravesite to lay flowers on for you, not to be able to bring them to your beside…" he looked at the moth-eaten flowers and gave a tiny laugh as he laid them down. "Not that these would look out of place in a cemetery - they're already mostly dead themselves! I'm sorry, I didn't have much time to find anything better."

He took a very deep breath and stared at the friend he never thought he would see again.

"I don't know how to thank you but… I think you saved my life." Memories of his final moments on 1985 came back to him and washed over him like the heat of the shower just an hour or two before. "I don't know what you did or how you did it but you saved me from Keats. You saved me from that… insane _turd_ of a man, and sent me home. Back to Robin, my dad, my sisters, even to my guinea pig. _Shit, _Alex, how am I ever supposed to thank you for that? Saving a life… it's not an easy favour to repay."

One of the machines began whirring a little which caught Simon's attention and distracted him for a moment, but he soon turned back to carry on his one sided conversation. There was so much more he had to say.

"I don't know what that place was… _is…" _he shook his head slowly, "but I am so grateful I had another chance at life. Don't get me wrong, my return to the present hasn't been… without _some_ problems," he knew that was putting it mildly, "but I'm alive. I'm breathing. I am living. And you are too. I never thought you could be. I know the others are dead… well, I know _Malcolm_ is dead," he hesitated as he recalled seeing his friend in the newspaper a couple of days earlier, "but you've got another chance too, Alex. Please don't give up."

He reached out and gently took her hand. It felt a little cold so he tried to warm it up as he spoke.

"I think I met your daughter," he said quietly, "I didn't know who she was at the time but she looked so familiar. As soon as I found out you were still here, in a coma, I realised how much of a resemblance there was between you and who she must have been. I…" he paused, "I bought her a smiley biscuit. I hope that was OK. She was so down, it was all I could do to cheer her up. I think it was her birthday…"

A tear began to roll down his cheek. It surprised him. He hadn't even known it was there.

"I… I missed my dad's birthday too. I wish I could have been here for it but at least I have a chance t make that up to him. You'll get the chance too, when you wake up. I'm sure you will. I just know it. One day you'll get back to see your daughter."

He felt a lump rising in his throat and realised that the day had been one long emotional trauma. It was time, he decided, to wrap things up and leave before he ended up blubbing all over her hospital-issue sheets.

"I think I'd better go," he whispered, "I just wanted… just needed to see for myself. I can't believe you are here_…. Alive!" _he gently laid her hand back on the bed and stood up slowly. "I'll be back to visit," he told her, "when I can. Just so you know someone's here. Just so there's someone to remind you to open your eyes and wake up." he leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. He remembered the last time he'd tried to give her a friendly kiss and her mistaken assumption that it was a sign of something more. He almost laughed as he remembered his rushed coming-out moment. "Say hello to Hunt and the others from me," he whispered, "tell them…" despite himself he gave a smile, "Tell them _shoe-shop boy _sends his best regards."

"You can tell them yourself."

The voice came out of the blue and sent Simon jumping in the air with surprise. The voice was familiar, yet not enough to immediately know who had spoken. With a thumping heart and a racing pulse his gaze turned upwards and settled upon the doorway. The barrel of a gun had him clearly in its sight, and so did the man standing the other side of it.

"_Keats," _Simon's heart leapt into his mouth as the full gravity of the moment struck him.

One man in a long, dark coat gave him a small but perfectly evil smile.

"Well, well, _Simon Shoebury_," he began, "what a lovely speech that was. How very touching." he paused. "I almost didn't recognise you with your clothes on."

Simon swallowed.

"I… I'm surprised you recognised me at all," he tried to hold his tone strong and firm, "I believe you've _mislaid _your spectacles somewhere."

With his other hand, Keats reached into his pocket out pulled out a second pair.

"Good thing I went to Specsavers," he said.

"Oh," gulped Simon.

He was out of witty retorts. He was out of strength, too. And clearly, he was also out of luck. Of all the places he had expected a final showdown, by the bedside of Alex Drake was really not one of them.

"Finally, it's time," Keats' smile edged up a notch, "no one to save your pathetic arse now."

Simon edged backwards a couple of paces.

"Wh-what do you _want_ with me?" he stammered.

"What's rightfully mine," said Keats.

"Which is?"

"Your soul."

Simon spat with confusion and fear.

"What do you _mean_ 'my soul'?"

"The one I worked hard for," smiled Keats, "don't you know?" he took a step forward. "You're the one that got away," he took a step forward, "and I've been trying to track you down for a very, very long time…"


	19. Chapter 19: We're Certain to Succeed

**Chapter 19**

It wasn't the first time Simon had looked down the barrel of a gun. It was, however, the first time that the gun was the least worrying part of the situation. The gun was made of metal. Cold, Inanimate. Just a tool for someone else's intentions. It was the man with the gun in his hands that terrified him, in so many ways.

"If you were going to kill me anyway then why didn't you just do it last night?" he asked nervously.

Keats took a step forward and gently closed the door behind him.

"I didn't bring the gun for you but since you happen to be here it's a nice bonus." He smiled. "Killing two birds with one stone. Well, one bird and one nerd."

Keats' words shook Simon up more than the thought of being shot himself.

"_Alex?"_ he gasped, "you're here to kill Alex?" He glanced at her motionless form. "She's already in a _coma!_ Why do you want to _kill_ her?"

"Because I want to make sure this time she's not going to stop me from getting what's mine."

Simon's eyes scanned the room for any kind of patient alarm button or some other way to alert someone to the situation but the alarm was over the opposite side of the bed and there was a comatose Alex in the way. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to endanger the lives of the hospital staff.

Falling back on his training, he tried to keep his cool and engage Keats in conversation; to win his trust and talk him round.

_Yeah, right_, thought Simon. _That's all very well for dealing with a hostage situation. It doesn't take into account what happens when you're dealing with a time-hopping crazy-man._

He didn't give the whole hostage negotiation technique much chance of working but it was the only thing standing between himself and a bullet.

"If you weren't here to kill _me_," he began, "then why haven't you been to kill Alex before now? Why wait until I was here?"

"Because I didn't know where she _was_ before," Keats said simply. He looked at Simon's clueless impression and gave him a little smirk. "Thanks for finding her for me. You saved me a job."

"Huh?" Simon's training went out the window as his confusion reigned supreme.

"Fantastic things, computers," smiled Keats, "the amount of information you can find, just at the click of a button… _if_ you know what you're looking for. Otherwise, it can take an eternity." He noted with glee the anxiety flashing across Simon's expression and continued. "I had a feeling you were going to do a bit of snooping about. Couldn't get me out your head after last night, eh?"

Simon bristled.

"Just relieved to get you out of my _bed_," he spat.

"_Robin's _bed," Keats corrected with a smirk, "…_and _Robin's database login. Did you really think that pathetic fight was fooling anyone?"

Simon felt his cheeks flush.

"So, what, you've been monitoring our database activity?" he asked quietly.

"Your techie friends were only too happy to help," Keats told him, "especially when I informed then that I have… '_very real fears' _that you were not ready to return to work yet, as your counsellor can testify to."

"Why did you get them to monitor Robin too?"

"Had a feeling you were heading for a suspension. Your behaviour's just been so… _erratic,"_ Keats smiled amiably, "rolling up drunk, getting into cars with strange men. Very kind of Robin to let you use his login really… considering what he saw last night."

Simon's blood boiled. He wanted to scream, wanted to throw a punch at that smug face, but knew it would only earn him a bullet in the chest. Instead he silently counted to ten, waiting for his anger to fade a little, then composed himself enough to ask a question.

"So you watched me searching for your file," he began in slow, measured tones, "and then for Alex. How did you know I was coming straight here?"

"I didn't," Keats rolled his eyes, "you've not heard a thing I've been saying, have you? Got cloth in your ears or something? I came to kill _her_," he aimed the gun at Alex in a pointing motion as though using it as a replacement, metal finger, "not you."

Simon hesitated.

"Why didn't you just search for her yourself?" he asked, "why wait until _I _found her?"

"Because," Keats hissed, "I didn't know who I was searching for."

Simon frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Keats trained his gun back a Simon and his mind drifted off a little.

"Being in a coma for four long years," he began, "…have you any idea what it's like to wake up from that? How much has gone? Its like being a baby all over again, learning it all for the first time." His gaze travelled upwards as though staring at the ceiling as he continued his tale. "At first I didn't know anything. I didn't know who I was, where I'd been, I couldn't remember anything at all." he scratched his head. "It took me a long time to work out this wasn't even my body."

A wave of nausea filed Simon from his toes to the top of his head.

"You what?" he whispered.

"I began to remember some of it. Slowly." Keats began to pace, never for a moment lowering his gun, "I remembered who I was…and who I became. Oh, I was merely _'him' _once," his speech became a jumbled collection of recollections, "I was a man. A man who endured a terrible injury when some bloody idiot decided protocol was only there to be used when it suited him. I woke up …_he_ woke up… somewhere else. Confused at first, but determined. Didn't want anyone else to meet the same fate. Made sure everything was done by the book. Not afraid to look at every last detail." he stopped pacing and turned to Simon. "But it wasn't enough. He wanted more." A smile came over his face. "_I_ wanted more."

Simon swallowed and ran his tongue around his lips.

"What do you mean?" he whispered.

"Everything has its opposite," Keats informed him, "just like day has night and the deserts have the seas." He paused. "And self-appointed Gods have their self-appointed Satans."

Simon edged back a little. _Forget the training, _he thought. There was nothing in the hostage 101 handbook that covered this.

"You're crazy," he whispered, "you're insane. You're trying to tell me you're the devil in spectacles?"

Keats gave a deep laugh in sheer amusement and entertainment at Simon's assumption.

"Do me a favour," he shook his head, "there's no such thing as the devil - I was talking metaphorically."

"You're talking _bollocks," _Simon corrected.

Keats sighed.

"I'm not the devil," he said, "but with Hunt going around all… _Saint Peter…_except a lot less saintly… there was all this energy floating around… represented everything he didn't. It just needed someone take on the role. To counter everything he stood for." He sighed. "Balance in all things."

Simon's heart began thumping so hard he feared Keats could hear it from across the room.

"If you don't think you're some kind of devil," he began, "then what did you mean about… waking up in the wrong body?"

"I was in the body of someone I hadn't been for years," Keats sneered, "Someone _good. _Someone who _cared_. I couldn't remember a lot but I knew that much." he paused, "as I worked to get my life back I remembered some things… small things… things that made me angry. I remembered you but not your name. Same with young Alex here. The details were gone forever. So I had to find out for myself."

Simon nodded slowly.

"The mental health post," he guessed.

Keats raised an eyebrow.

"You have done your research," he smiled. "It took a while to get there… I didn't seem to be… settling back into work very well. Kept moving around."

"Why didn't they just let you go?"

"After the way my life was put in danger in the first place… they wouldn't dare. Knew I'd have sued them for every penny I could get my hands on. So they kept moving me, until…" his face broke into a smirk, "…I found the perfect fit."

"And you waited all this time to find me?" Simon whispered.

Keats nodded.

"I had a couple of false alarms," he admitted, "but my persistence paid off in the end."

Simon shook his head slowly.

"Don't tell me," he began, "did one of these false alarms end in a fight and another in a charge of manslaughter?" Keats didn't respond, uninterested by Simon's question so he decided to try another. "OK, answer me one thing," his voice shook a little as he tried to stand bold, "if you couldn't remember my name or Alex's then how come you had no problem remembering Gene Hunt?"

Keats snorted through his nose.

"Hunt isn't something you can forget," he said, "like your eyelids remember to blink, and your stomach remembers to digest. Your mind remembers Gene Hunt. Once you've met him," he spat in distaste, "you can't get the parasite out of your head."

Simon shuddered. He hadn't been too fond of Gene at first either but Keats had a very twisted view of things that was shaking him up more and more.

"So what was last night all about?" his voice almost gave out as he asked a question he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to, "If you'd found me then why not just kill me?"

"Oh, believe me, I thought about it," Keats told him, "for many months and years I imagined finally tracking you down and thought about how to stop you breathing the same air as me. But by the time I found you it didn't seem like enough somehow." He gave an evil sneer. "When Alex took away my chance at taking you it was just the start of the end for me. Between her and _Hunt_ I saw all my hopes slip away and ended up back here, in a clapped out body and a job with no authority. I had to start all over again. I should have had your soul, moved on, job done for now, back for Hunt and DI Drake when I had the chance."

"So you wanted me to suffer?"

"If I couldn't take your soul the I could at least destroy it," Keats smiled. He casually scratched an itchy elbow with his gun. "It was fun watching you going slowly round the bend and losing everything. You looked so innocent laying there in bed, all peaceful and quiet. Must have been having sweet dreams, eh? I quite enjoyed the drugging as well. Amazing what you can find laying around in CID. GHB, Rohypnol… One man's evidence is another man's…"

Before Keats could finish his sentence, something inside of Simon snapped right there and then. All his hard work, trying to keep his cool, trying to remember his training, everything went to pieces in that one moment.

"You _bastard," _he cried, seething as flashes of the previous night came back to haunt him. Visions of Keats closing in on him, hearing the whispers, feeling his hot breath as he sneered his words into his ear - they all came back to Simon and bubbled up like a vat of acid inside his chest. Losing control, he lunged forward, not even sure what he was intending to do, except that it would involve as much violence as possible. But Keats had anticipated his movement and took no time in taking fast aim at him, then pulling the trigger without a second thought.

For Simon, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

Time itself began to lose its shape and form. It no longer followed the natural pattern of seconds into minutes into hours that he had been used to all his life.

The moment the gunshot rang out he anticipated the pain, and although in real life it was only a split second before it penetrated his flesh it felt as though he was waiting for the moment forever.

When it hit, it felt like eons passed without pain, without action, without motion. To say his life flashed before his eyes would have been an exaggeration, but thoughts of death and unfinished business certainly filled those endless moments.

And then it struck him; the power and the pain. The force of the bullet struck him somewhere just below his chest. He was never very good at anatomy so he didn't try to work out where the pain and blood were radiating from; instead he looked up at Keats with a gaping mouth and wide eyes, almost wishing to find it was all some kind of illusion or joke.

The sneer Keats returned to him left him in no doubt that the bullet buried deep inside of him was destined to end his life. The agony was becoming all-consuming now. His vision began to swim as he stumbled to the floor clutching his wound like a cliché in a movie.

He could hear screaming, only vaguely aware that it was his own. In his mind all kinds of fast, tiny thoughts were crashing around. The thought that someone would have heard the gunshot and would be there to save him soon; the thought that - as far as places to get shot went - being shot in a hospital was probably the better end of the deal; the thought that Robin would get home and find him gone and the thought that he was about to breathe his very last, final few breaths in the same room as evil personified.

Dark, cloudy, blurred. His vision was failing as his eyelids kept closing, trying to shroud his dying form in darkness to hide from the world.

The call of passing was getting stronger now. Every breath hurt too much and his body began to fail as the blood flowed like an endless river. After all he had been though, to come so far and fight so hard then lose his life this way - it was a cruel twist and a sick joke created by fate.

As though fighting against a ten ton weight he forced his eyes open one last time, hoping to take one last memory to the grave with him, but the sight that greeted him was not one he wanted to see. Knowing that time for action was short after the gunshot and the screaming, a dark shadow was closing in on Alex's bed. Simon forced himself to keep his eyes open to watch in horror as Keats lifted a pillow from a nearby chair and lowered it callously over Alex's peaceful, beautiful features.

Something happened.

Something rose inside Simon like fire.

It was a burst of strength; of pure energy, of determination and defiance. He'd already put the Grim Reaper on hold once before - he was sure he could delay the inevitable by just a few moments .

How he managed to move his body, Simon honestly did not know. With a heavy, lumbering motion he hauled himself up from the floor and gave a terrible, thunderous howl before lunging at Keats, grasping his ankle with both hands and pulling it so hard that he lost his footing and fell to the floor. One foot struck Simon in the head while his gun tumbled through the air and landed on the floor. Both men reached for it but the boot in the head had caused more injuries to add to his collection and Simon lost out to the laughing Keats who took his gun back and stood up, straightening his tie and mocking Simon by leaving him sprawled across the floor.

"Now, where was I?" he smirked, grasping the pillow once again and turning back to Alex.

As a last, desperate move Simon reached out and grabbed a machine that was sitting beside him. Dragging it over, he found it was a portable resuscitation machine and momentarily wondered if watching Casualty for two decades was enough training to use one. He could barely see, barely even move, but by now he was crazed with desperation and hatred for the demonic man before him. Fumbling at the controls and turning a couple of knobs, he hoped that the TV dramas got it right so that he would too.

Taking the paddles while still sprawled across the floor he pressed them hard against the backs of Keats's legs and an almighty scream rang out. This time, almost a whole Jim Keats fell on Simon, making the single foot he'd encountered previously seem like a treat in comparison. Once again his gun tumbled from his grasp but this time it was Simon who had the luck.

As it fell beside him and his fingers closed around it he closed his eyes in relief and surrender. With the last action his body would allow, he pressed the gun against the side of Keats' neck and pulled the trigger. He knew right then that he had taken a life to save another. Jim Keats was not a person that the world was going to miss.

Time slowed down again as darkness took over.

With eyes still closed, Simon gave in to the damage and the pain. He lay across the ground, barely registering the sounds of doctors and nurses rushing into the room to find out what the commotion had been about, fading I and out as they worked to revive him and slipping deep into unconsciousness as those around them tried to work out what had happened.

He felt his last breath leave his lungs.

Then, nothing.

Then,

_Something._


	20. Chapter 20: If Our Love Song

**Chapter 20**

There were dreams, visions, hallucinations.

They didn't make a great deal of sense.

Lots of darkness… never-_ending_ darkness. A few bursts of distant music and the occasional voice. Somewhere, in a dim corner, a broken Speak & Spell sat smoking and smouldering on the floor.

"_Spell 'It's Over'," _it coughed and spluttered.

That was when he realised he was back in the dark landscape of his nightmares, the ones that had plagued him since his return from 1985. Where was he now? Dreaming? Was he alive or not? Can you even dream when you're dead?

A whisper blew across the air, circling him but never quite coming close enough for him to hear the words.

A tiny shiver down his spine brought Simon to the realisation that the dream was slipping away. He was leaving the dreamscape, but to where? Life? Death? Heaven or hell? He had no idea where he was heading or even if there was a place beyond this barren land of broken Speak & Spells.

Just as he felt the dream fading and his mind pulled out of the blackness he finally caught the whisper, just close enough to hear. A familiar female voice came clearly through his mind.

"_Thank you," _she said sincerely.

A warm sensation surrounded Simon. Alex's pleas through his nightmares had not gone unheard. He'd found her - and saved her. Now she was safe and her cries would haunt him no longer.

The darkness faded to light and brightness surrounded him, penetrating through his eyelids no matter how hard he tried to fight it. He felt his head move a little from side to side while he subconsciously tried to dispel the light as it pushed the darkness away.

"_Simon?" _

A voice of a woman came from somewhere around him. He knew it, but couldn't quite place it. There was a pain radiating from somewhere on his body; it felt like his stomach but seemed to be spreading far and wide. He flinched and tried to open his eyes but the light and the pain made it difficult to complete this seemingly easy task.

"_Simon? Si?" _the voice came again.

This time, Simon tried with all his might to open those impossibly heavy eyelids, and finally succeeded. At first, everything was a blur. Then slowly things began to take shape around him. On a TV in the corner of the room he could see images moving and after many tries to focus the sight of David Bowie singing _Absolute Beginners_ reached him.

In a moment of cold dread he tried to sit up and found himself unable to move even an inch. His heart gave a severe thump inside his chest and a string of weakly spoken expletives came forth from his mouth.

"_Fuck! I'm in fucking eighty five again! Oh fucking hell!"_

"Simon! Simon, calm down!" the voice urged. Two hands gently rested on his arm to sooth him, "Nurse! Quickly, he's waking up, I think he's in pain…"

Simon tried to blink the person into focus. For a moment he still couldn't see who was beside him and found possibilities going through his mind. Alex? Susannah?

"Simon? It's OK, I'm here," the voice came again.

This time as he blinked the figure came into clearer focus to reveal his sister Elaine with a pained and worried expression.

"E-Elaine?" his voice cracked just a little.

"Shhhh, don't try to speak," his sister reached out and gently stroked his hair, "you've been through a lot of surgery. You're very weak, you need to rest."

Simon's eyes settled back on the TV where the end titles to TOTP2 were beginning. Feeling like an idiot, he rolled his eyes and cursed himself silently.

"_Stupid Bowie," _he mumbled, angry with himself for not noticing the flat-screen TV that would have been a couple of decades before its time. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath of relief. He barely registered the commotion as doctors and nurses arrived and began flitting around him, checking vital signs and shining bright lights in his eyes.

He heard a few snippets of conversations that the doctors tried to have with him but he was too tired and relieved to care. They could tell him later, he decided. For now, all that mattered was getting some sleep. He assumed he was going to need all the rest and energy he could for when the questions came. The day's events were not going to be easy to explain - or to remember.

The next time he opened his eyes he found a bowed head on his bed and his hand being held by someone. He took a deep inward breath as he took stock of where he was. His noisy breath awoke the bowed head from its deep thought, rising up and meting Simon's gaze.

"Si?" The familiar voice of Robin was music to his ears and a tiny smile spread across his lips.

"Robin," he whispered.

"Oh, _Si," _Robin's eyes were red from tears and lack of sleep, "I thought I'd lost you for certain this time."

Simon's tongue ran across his dry lips as he felt Robin squeeze his hand..

"How long…" he couldn't quite gather his thoughts, "how long have I been here? How long since it happened?"

"It's been three days," Robin whispered tearfully, "you woke up for a few minutes yesterday and then you went back to sleep."

Simon flinched as the pain made itself known to him.

"Am… am I OK?" he asked, "how much damage was there?"

"The surgeons got the bullet out OK but there were complications," Robin sat forward and squeezed Simon's hand tightly, "there was a lot of internal bleeding and it took hours to repair the damage. They didn't think you were going to make it." He paused. "There was another casualty too."

Simon closed his eyes.

"Keats," he whispered.

Robin hesitated, looking a little sheepish.

"I actually forgot about him," he confessed.

"Who did you mean then?"

"Your iPhone," Robin nervously pulled some broken pieces of Simon's once-treasured item out of his pocket and laid them on the bed. "I think you must have fallen on it." he gave Simon a sympathetic laugh. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Simon gave a tiny smile, "it's only a phone."

Robin looked at him in shock.

"I think the morphine must be kicking in or something," he said.

Simon closed his eyes for a moment.

"iPhones don't seem that important any more," he said quietly, "neither do very many things.

Robin nodded slowly.

"Totally agree," he said.

Simon looked at him seriously.

"I suppose I'm going to be answering a lot of questions, am I?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll probably be charged with the murder of that bastard," Simon said nervously, "won't I?"

Robin gave a tiny smile.

"I seriously doubt it," he said, "CCTV camera in the corner of the room. It caught everything. You're a hero, Si."

"I'm a what?"

"For what you did to save that poor woman," Robin continued. He indicated the TV. "Look."

As Robin increased the volume, Simon noticed for the first time the footage being shown on the news.

"…_late on Wednesday afternoon. It's thought DCI Keats burst into a hospital room belonging to a long-term comatose patient, armed with a firearm. He shot her visitor before attempting to smother the patient with a pillow, but the victim - DCI Shoebury - fought their attacker despite his own injuries. It has since emerged that Keats, who died during the scuffle, was suffering from mental and emotional difficulties following a four year coma. Police are still gathering evidence from his one-bed roomed flat, including photographs, diaries and the date rape drug known as Rohypnol…"_

Simon felt a lump rising in his throat and looked at Robin.

"The tests," he began weakly, "what did they find in the coffee?"

Robin looked at him sadly.

"I think you just found your answer on the news," he whispered.

Simon closed his eyes again and felt a tear slipping down his cheek.

"Bastard," he whispered.

Robin bit his lip.

"Si?" he whispered, "I… I am so sorry." He looked down at where Simon's pale, trembling hand lay within his own. "I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself for thinking you could ever cheat on me. And knowing now what we do about Keats…" he threw his head into his hands. "They found pictures, Simon. Hundreds of photos of you, just walking down the road, or sitting on a bench or doing the shopping. They even found some taken through the windows. He's been stalking you for weeks. Stalking both of us. He was completely crazy."

"Tell me something I don't know," Simon sighed sadly.

Robin looked at him, his eyes filling up and glassy.

"Do you think," he whispered, "that we are ever going to be able to get back to how we were before?"

Simon hesitated. He stared at Robin. He'd never seen his boyfriend looking so lost and down, shattered into pieces by the truth of one man gone mad and assumptions he had made based on trickery.

"I will never be able to forget waking up that morning," he whispered, "knowing that something had happened and having no idea what, reading the message that you left for me, hearing your message that your colleagues so kindly passed on to me… I want to forget it Rob. I just don't know how."

"Just like I'll never forget the image of you cuddled in the arms of another man," Robin whispered.

"I had no choice!"

"And I had no choice but to take the scene at face value!"

Simon sniffed, a second tear threatening to fall.

"I know," he whispered, "and I'm sorry. I know that you saw something there was no coming back from. I know that you will never be able to forget it, any more than I'll be able to forget the sound of him whispering in my ear or the fear that he might have…" he choked as he couldn't quite bring himself to fill in the word that still terrified him. He took a deep breath to calm his emotions. "You asked… if we could ever go back to how we were before."

Robin nodded.

"Yes?"

Simon hesitated, then very slowly he shook his head.

"No," he said quietly, "I don't think we can."

Robin's heart leapt into his mouth. All his worst fears seemed to be realised at once.

"We can't?"

Simon shook his head again.

"We're going to be stronger," he whispered, "unbreakable. Untouchable. Hell, Rob, you come through this, you can come through anything. And mean it." He gave a slight cough which hurt his wound and caused him to grimace for a moment before continuing, reflecting lyrics that . "I absolutely love you."

Fir the first time, Robin smiled as he caught Simon's eye. It wasn't a weak smile that tried to reassure him; it was a strong, relieved, reinvigorated smile.

"We're going to be OK," he agreed. He gazed into Simon's eyes for the longest time. Lapping up every second of it. He had thought for some time he would never see those eyes open again. Now they were open, alive and glistening there was no way he wanted to turn his gaze elsewhere. Finally he spoke again. "They say you'll need a week or so to recover. You were still not totally back to normal from your server incident."

Simon rubbed the sore spot on his head where Keats' foot had struck him.

"Don't remind me," he said quietly.

"But once you're home," Robin continued, "there's so much we can do. We'll make up for everything that's happened. Make a fresh start. I think we should finally take that holiday we promised ourselves. What do you think? And there's plenty taped on out Sky Plus box to snuggle up and watch while you're recuperating…"

Simon slowly let out his breath as Robin almost replayed conversations they'd had after he had woken up from his coma. He nodded and smiled, and let Robin make the plans. It didn't really matter to Simon what they did, or when, or where, or with whom. All that mattered was that he had another chance - another chance at life, another chance with Robin and another chance to live without the shadow of Keats darkening every moment.

He smiled and listened to Robin for several minutes, happy to just go along with anything his boyfriend planned out, until finally Robin asked of him a very important question.

"So," he began sincerely, "what do you want me to do with your iPhone then?" he gathered up the pieces and slipped them into his pocket. "Shall I see if I can get someone to repair it? Maybe you can claim it on the insurance and get a brand new one!"

Simon sighed and shook his head slowly.

"Actually, he began, "I think I've lost a bit of my enthusiasm for Apple."

Robin frowned.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Simon nodded slowly, "I think I might try some other brand next time…" he paused and smiled. "I hear good things about those Android phones, you know…"


	21. Chapter 21: Could fly over Mountains

**Chapter 21**

One week. Seven days. Seven deep and dreamless sleeps.

No more nightmares for Simon.

One week passed with bland hospital food, annoying backless gowns, embarrassing bed baths and much prodding and poking.

"The gunshot wound nearly did me in, now the humiliation has almost finished the job," Simon muttered as Robin helped him tie his shoelaces.

"The important thing is that you survived," he told Simon.

Simon nodded.

"Takes more than a bullet to get the better of me," He said.

"I wasn't talking about the bullet, I was talking about the backless smocks and bed baths!" Robin grinned cheekily.

Simon rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling.

"Well look who's developing a promising career in stand up comedy!" he teased.

Robin poked his tongue out and got to his feet as he completed his shoe-lace task.

"You're all done," he said.

Simon slowly pushed himself off the end of the bed and stood up experimentally. He couldn't quite straighten up but he was on his feet and ready to leave which was the most important thing.

"Promise me you've got no Boy George docu-dramas to make me watch when we get home this time?" he asked.

"Promise."

"And you've not recorded a ton of eighties specials for me?"

Robin gave a gentle laugh.

"No," he said, "none."

"But you're still making the homemade pizza?"

Robin smiled.

"If you promise to do the washing up," he said.

"What, with my terrible gaping wounds?" Simon asked pitifully which earned him a pillow thrown at him.

"Yeah, you're all better," Robin laughed, hauling Simon's bag onto his shoulder

Simon smiled at him with a very deep, sincere happiness. He took Robin's hands and squeezed them.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?" Robin frowned, "surely not my jokes?"

"For everything," Simon couldn't pin it down to one thing, "for _everything._"

Robin wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve such a deep thank-you but appreciated it never the less. He linked his arm through Simon's to support him and asked,

"Are you ready to go?"

Simon nodded.

"Very, very ready." He paused for a moment. "Can… can we take one detour before we go?"

Robin gave him a tiny smile. He didn't even need to ask where.

"Of course we can."

It gave Simon chills to walk back down the corridor, knowing what fate had befallen him the last time he was there. He couldn't help but recall moments from the day and the fear he'd experienced. How could one man bring so much evil and anger to the world? Even now he wasn't sure that Keats was a man at all.

There were guards outside Alex's room now. Simon felt it slightly unnecessary since the antagonist of the piece was laying in a mortuary somewhere. It seemed comparable to the old saying about locking the gate once the horse had bolted, but he appreciated the gesture for Alex's sake.

He turned to Robin.

"Do you mind if I…."

Robin didn't need to wait for him to finish.

"You need some privacy," he whispered and nodded, "I'll wait here."

"Thank you," whispered Simon.

He walked slowly and painfully forwards the doorway, fearful of a frisking, but the guards simply stood aside and nodded respectfully. Simon's image had been on every news report for the last ten days, there wasn't a person in the country who didn't recognise him now.

"Uh, thanks," he said quietly, slipping through the doorway.

Once in the room he was surprised to find that Alex was not alone. Sitting in the two hard, plastic visitor's chairs were a teenage girl and a man that he'd met once before. As soon as he entered, the teenager stood up in surprise.

"_It's you!"_ she whispered.

Simon gave a nervous smile.

"Hi… _Molly?"_ he asked, unsure if he remembered her name correctly.

Molly returned his nervous smile.

"They… they say you saved mum's life," she said quietly. Simon spread his hands bashfully, still not sure what to make of the hero status he seemed to have gained. Molly walked around from the opposite side of the bed and reached out her hand. "Thank you, Mister Shoe-Man."

"Shoebury," Simon smiled. He shook her hand. "And it's Simon."

The man got to his feet and followed Molly's lead, coming towards Simon with his hand outstretched.

"We can't thank you enough for what you did," he began, "it's bad enough that Alex is still here… we never thought her life would be put in danger this way." He shook Simon's hand firmly_. "Thank _you."

Simon recalled meeting him once before, the day he'd bought Molly the smiley biscuit in the canteen.

"Anyone would have done the same," he said sheepishly, knowing full well that it sounded as corny as anything, but he wasn't used to this kind of attention and didn't know how to deal with it.

The man nodded.

"I'm Evan White. Any legal implications that come from this, just say the word and I'll do all I can."

"Oh," Simon said nervously, "thank you. I think."

Molly smiled at him.

"When mum wakes up we'll tell her all about this," she promised.

Evan looked a little nervous.

"_If_ she wakes up," he said cautiously.

"_When," _Simon countered.

Both Molly and Evan stared at him; one looking at him gratefully and hopefully, the other aghast that he could say something so flippantly and give a teenager false hope.

"Yes, well," Evan began, "we all hope that will happen. But it _has_ been two years."

"She'll make it back," Simon said with total conviction, "I know she will." He looked at Alex laying in the bed beside them, peaceful and still. "Uh… I know this must sound really rude but… can I have a moment with her? Alone?"

Slowly, Evan nodded.

"I think that's probably the least we can do," he said. He took Molly's hand. "Come on, Molly, let's get a drink and let Mister Shoe-Shop have a word with your mum."

Simon scowled.

"It's _Shoebury,_" he said, watching them leave. With a sigh, he sank into a chair beside Alex and pulled it closer to the bed. Watching her laying there, so still and oblivious, he couldn't help but envy her in one way. She had no concept of the danger she'd been in just a week and a half earlier. She'd never had to see Keats aiming a gun at her or listen to his insane rambling.

"Hey," he began quietly, "It's me again. Simon." He paused. "Well…. I… I guess we're pretty much even now. When I said I didn't know how to thank you for saving my life I wasn't intending to have to return the favour!" He stopped for a moment, trying to work out what to say, then took her hand. "He's gone now," he whispered, "Keats. He's dead." He hesitated as something dawned on him. "Actually, I've… I've probably sent him back to where you are now." He bit his lip sheepishly. "Oh, I _hope_ not… I'll feel really guilty about this if I have! Like we're playing Keats tennis with each other. Back and forth…" he gave a nervous laugh. Keats wasn't a subject he wished to dwell on for too long. "I still believe you're going to wake up, Alex_. I _did… I know _you _can too. And when you do I promise I'll be there to help you in any way I can. I'll take you out for a coffee, get you round when Robin makes his brilliant pizza, take you and Molly to the cinema… anything you want. Do you know why?" he paused. "Because we're destined to be friends. Whatever time, whatever life, whatever year, we're supposed to be friends. I've no doubt about that." He watched her chest rise and fall as she breathed in and out. In 2010 her body was alive. In 1985, her soul was positively living. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead before saying his goodbyes and getting slowly to his feet.

He knew that he'd be back every so often to make sure she was OK, to talk to her, to help her know that any time she was able to return she'd have friends waiting for her. Until that time came, he was going to go and live his own life, knowing that she was happy and safe with her friends and lover in the eighties until it was time for her to come home.

Friends for life. And beyond.

**Epilogue up later!**


	22. Epilogue: Sail Over Heartaches

**Epilogue**

It had only been a week or so since leaving hospital but Simon was back on his feet and getting on with life almost as though nothing had ever happened. At first Robin had feared that the recent events would set Simon back after his experiences in 1985 had only just started to fade, but the opposite had happened. No longer haunted by a bespectacled madman with a Speak & Spell, Simon was able to get on with his life, and he appreciated it so much more than he ever had before.

Robin sat at the kitchen table, a peaceful smile resting across his face, watching Simon as he busied himself in the kitchen cooking a surprisingly appetising fry-up for breakfast. As his wounds began to heal so he became more and more outgoing within himself. He had ceased to 'exist' and instead had started living again.

"You know, you've really changed," he said wistfully, "in a good way, I mean. You've taken back your life." he paused. "I'm proud of you, Si."

Simon gave him a quick smile before turning the bacon over in the pan.

"Life's too short," he said, "he might have been insane but one thing I learned from Keats was to appreciate every moment because you never know when you're going to find yourself in the eighties with three broken toes."

Robin smiled again. He watched his boyfriend burning himself on hot toast and swearing profusely, then chewed on his lip.

"I think I understand a little more now" he said quietly as Simon glanced over, "what you went through. I know I wasn't there in the… the eighties with you but helping you find out the truth about Alex and Keats…" he sighed a little, "I feel like I've been a part of it now. Until then it was like you suddenly had this big thing in your life that I wasn't a part of. I didn't know how to help you or reach you. I felt… well, 'left out' isn't the right term, but…"

Simon nodded.

"I think I understand," he said quietly. He turned down the oven hobs that were frying a variety of artery-clogging goodies and sat down beside him. "Believe me, Rob, the whole…. Eighties…. _thing_, it's really not something to envy or feel like you'd missed out in any way. If I could change one thing in my life, I'd make it so that I never went down to the server room that day, never gone back in time and never gone through all of this. But it _did_ take over my life for a while and I should have been more open with you."

"You were scared," Robin shrugged, "I understand why you didn't want to let me in."

"I still should have tried," Simon cursed himself for not being open with Robin about his experience from the very start. He reached over and held Robin's hand, then looked at him seriously. "I can listen to my music again now without getting flashbacks. I can fall asleep at night without hearing Alex crying out for help. I can pass by electronics shops without feeling terrified that all the computers are going to turn into Speak and Spells. That's thanks to you. You and your support and patience."

Robin gave a warm and genuine smile as Simon leaned forward and kissed him, then got to his feet and went about his business in the kitchen. He knew that there would always be a piece of Simon's life that he'd missed out on sharing but he had a little more insight now. He hoped that Simon's instincts about Alex were right and that she would one day wake up so he could meet her for himself and shake her by the hand to thank her for looking after Simon in an unforgiving decade, but until then he hoped that the eighties could stay right where they belonged - in the past.

Simon, glancing behind him at Robin, smiled to himself as he thought exactly the same thing. He would never forget what he'd been through but he was moving on now. He would always have the wounds to remind him of his time caught up in a grudge match that spanned two dimensions and twenty five years, but that bullet hole stood for the end; the closing of a chapter.

Turning the page brought a lifetime of possibilities and Simon, for one, was in no hurry to discover what they were. He was content to watch the world go by, and with Robin by his side he knew no one could touch him. Back where he belonged, he was happy.

And he hoped Alex was happy too.

* * *

Alex woke with a start, her heart racing and her brow covered with beads of sweat. She sat bold upright and panted, trying desperately to get her breath back and gather her thoughts. In the darkness a shard of light from the streetlamp outside hit the _Pride & Prejudice _poster framed and mounted on her wall. On the floor sat a couple of newspapers paying tribute to a recently deceased comedian while beside them a TV guide spoke of a new Saturday night line up starting that weekend.

She rubbed her forehead and tried to shake the dream that had woken her so suddenly, but it was hard to get it out of her mind.

Beside her a big lump of body shuffled and knocked her almost fully out of bed as it rolled over and sat up.

"Eh? Bols, are you having bad dreams about Malcolm's suit again?" Gene's gruff voice came from the darkness.

Alex glanced around at him, trying to quieten her pulsing heart and brushed her long, highlighted hair from her face.

"No, Gene," she whispered, "just a… a bit of a nightmare about someone we haven't seen in a long time. That's all."

Gene hauled himself upright and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"'Cos if you are," he continued, ignoring her answer, "I can have him back in uniform before you can say _'purple velvet'_."

Alex gagged.

"Well, no, Gene, I was _not_ having a bad dream about Malcolm's suit, but I very likely will now, _thank_ you."

Gene secretly still believed Malcolm's suit may have been involved but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"So, what was it then?" he asked, "come on, if you don't tell me I can't work out which bad joke to make to take yer mind off it, can I?"

Alex took a deep breath, She was feeling a little calmer now.

"I'm sorry," she began, "I didn't mean to wake you up, it's just…." she paused and sighed. "I had a dream about DCI Keats, and…" she hesitated. It sounded so stupid. "And _Simon."_

"Simon?" Gene repeated, "he's the one who owned the shoe shop?"

Alex rolled her eyes.

"Don't be cruel to him, Gene, you remember him."

"I remember his O-phone and his broken toes," shuddered Gene, "No wonder you woke up with such a start. Not the kind of person you want to be dreaming about. End up dreaming about getting squashed by a giant pair of sandals."

"No, actually" Alex shook her head slowly, "actually it was a very moving dream. It felt so real. It6 felt like… Simon was saving me. From Keats. I don't know how…"

"Clobbered him with a pair of Hush Puppies?"

Alex decided to ignore that remark.

"…but he did. I don't know why, Gene, I can't help feeling…" she paused, "that it was true, somehow."

"Bolly, it's been ten _years," _Gene shook his head, "What are you dreaming about them now for?"

Alex hesitated.

"That's what worries me," she said quietly.

"Come back to bed," Gene told her.

"I'm already _in_ bed."

"Then lay back down and let me get that Shoe-shop-boy out yer head."

As Gene's arms dragged her down and she surrendered to a passionate attempt at helping her over her nightmare she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye. On the small TV in the corner a Teletext news page was showing, with the headline "DCI PREVENTS HOSPITAL MURDER" in blocky graphics. She blinked and did a double take, but as she looked for a second time the TV was off and the headline gone.

Alex didn't know what had happened but she couldn't help feeling that something strange had occurred. Still, there would be plenty of time to think about it tomorrow. For now it was night time, and the night meant only one thing as far as Gene was concerned.

"One word of warning though, Guv," Alex began sternly, "mention Malcolm's suit again around bedtime and you _will_ be sleeping on your own, in the Merc."

As she allowed Gene to soothe any lingering worries she thought she caught a whisper on the air.

"_Whatever time, whatever life, whatever year, we're supposed to be friends. I've no doubt about that." _

Alex closed her eyes for a moment as the whisper ended. It _was_ Simon, she was sure of it. She could hear him very clearly - and she knew then that if the day ever came for her to open her eyes, she had friends waiting on the other side.

The End

_**I just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who has read, followed and especially reviewed this fic. Thank you for your patience when I took time off of writing during health issues and my son's newborn days and thank you for following it to the end. Hopefully Simon will stop haunting me now - I swear I've had nightmares about him getting cross with me for not finishing this story!**_

_**There is going to be a third and final fic in this sequence that started with Out of the Window and continued in Absolute Beginners, back with Alex and Gene, which I hope to begin writing soon. -x-**_


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